Wolf in Wolf's Clothing
by Lampito
Summary: The Impala is getting on; she's crossed the country more times than they can remember. Now, she needs extensive and expensive overhauling. A paying job presents itself, not their usual type of Hunt, but Dean and Sam can't afford to be picky. COMPLETE
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER: **None of it is mine, except Jimi and the OCs (sounds like a band, doesn't it?), and you can borrow them, if you like. Just don't make them do line-dancing, is all I ask.

**TITLE: **Wolf in Wolf's Clothing.

**SUMMARY: **The Impala is tired. Seriously, it's a term used to describe an engine that's seen heavy use, and is getting badly worn out. She's not young, she's criss-crossed the country more times than can be counted, she needs some serious - and expensive - overhauling. Sam and Dean have to raise the money somehow. A job presents itself - not their usual sort of Hunt, but they're not in a position to be picky.

**RATING: **T. Characters use naughty words. The F word, the S word, the P word, amongst other uncivil utterances. SPANK THEM! SPANK THEM ALL! Especially Dean Winchester. But Sam Winchester too. Winchester spanking volunteers, please to form an orderly queue...

**BLAME:** In particular, this one is the fault of the Denizens of the Jimiverse who kept pestering for the story of how Ronnie the Cranky Antipodean Werewolf met Andrew (whom she ended up pair-bonded with), especially leahelisabeth who I'm pretty sure sent this plot bunny. Naturally, the Winchesters had to be involved.

I'll pick away at this one as time, opportunity and the co-operation of plot bunnies allows - the damned bunnies got it started, but the little mongrels will never guarantee to keep the inspirations coming. I also have a feeling that it won't be the usual crack that I seem to end up writing (although I probably won't be able to avoid it entirely) - the outline that the plot bunny whispered sounded quite nasty, actually, so we'll have to see if it finds an audience. If it becomes too heavily concentrated on OCs, it'll have to go somewhere else, like LiveJournal, because nobody likes a Mary Sue. We'll see what happens. Anyway, you have been warned. And it's our birthday, Preciousssss, so we'll write what we wantssss, yesssss we will...

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><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

_**November 1997**_

Shit Shit. Shit. This was bad. Dying on a Hunt was one thing; dying of your own stupidity was just, well, infuriating. Finding yourself not so much a Hunter as a Huntee was really, really _annoying_.

She was used to other Hunters trying to kill her from time to time - there would always be the 'shoot/stab/decapitate first ask questions afterwards' types out there, and she was after all technically a fugly - but this was nasty. Nasty, but maybe inevitable – news would get around, no matter how hard she tried to stay under the radar. It was a big country, but Hunters met, talked, swapped stories and information…

Worse, these guys were organised. And for some reason, the plan seemed to be to take her alive: the ambush, the group attack, the knives.

The full moon hung brightly in the cold, clear sky. She laughed grimly to herself. They had gambled that she'd go four-legged, then stand her ground. They'd gambled wrong – while gaining control of the shapeshift, she'd learned early in the piece that thinking and reacting intelligently was easier in human form. Avoiding killing anyone was easier too, although having had to tangle with half a dozen of them, she'd had to start hurting people. _They started it_, she heard a small voice whine in her head: she was sporting several knife wounds, and her right arm was badly damaged - it hurt like hell, but better to block an oncoming crowbar with an arm than a head. When she'd fought her way out, shots had been fired from multiple weapons - she had several rounds in her, and the stinging agony told her that at least some of them were silver. There was nothing for it; she could stand and kill, or run. Damn it, one day, trying to do the right thing was going to get her killed…

So she'd run, gritted her teeth on the worsening pain and growing lightheadedness, and run. She had darkness on her side. First priority had to go to digging the silver rounds out. It wouldn't be the first time she'd had to do that - she knew that it would hurt horribly - but then she could slink away. The only problem was, she was losing it: she'd already lost a lot of blood, and by the time she found an isolated spot in a small copse of trees, her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely hold her knife. Silver, damned silver, agonising poison… she leaned back against a tree, trying to slow her breathing, focus her vision, stop the shivering. _You have to get the silver out_, she told herself, _stop fucking around and DO IT_… but the knife had become alarmingly heavy, and the wound in her side swam in and out of focus as gravity did another sickening barrel roll…

Then she heard the movement in the trees off to one side. She closed her eyes briefly, and sighed. Bugger. This was it, then. Oh well, death before dishonour. Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to Hell we go… Go down swinging, that was the way to do it. She concentrated on her grip on the knife. _You've killed me, you bastards, so no more Miss Manners. I am going to take at least one of you with me. At least._

A figure stepped out of the trees in front of her. A high pitched ringing noise started in her ears, and she heard a voice that sounded a long way off say, "She's here." Two other figures stepped into the clearing, and approached her carefully. She played possum - actually, it wasn't that difficult to pretend to be half-dead - as the first figure approached, and knelt beside her.

She snarled, and let fly with a killing strike. The man - it was a man, a male voice said "Shit!" - dodged backwards, but not before her blade made contact, drawing a shriek of pain from him. She subsided, coughing weakly, grinning.

"Enough!" barked another voice. "Christ, what a mess, you bunch of fucktards, you've really screwed this one up." It wasn't a happy voice. "You've halved the damned value, at least…"

"But she's not even…" began a more tentative voice.

"Shut it!" the Boss voice ordered. "Where are the others?"

"Corey's down, he looked pretty bad," Tentative Tone answered, "Dwayne stayed with him, he aint looking much better. No idea where Roy is – I heard him screamin'."

"Fuck," Boss was officially not happy. There was the sound of a pistol being cocked. "We'll salvage what we can from this, and then…"

He was abruptly cut off when a snarling black streak shot out of the trees, and knocked him halfway across the clearing.

_The cavalry arrives_, she grinned to herself, clawing her way to her feet using the tree.

"It's a fucking wolf!" Tentative Tone shrieked, trying to draw a bead on the massive animal while it worried at the Boss.

"You really are a fucktard, aren't you?" she growled at him before hitting him in the head with the hilt of her knife with everything she had. He went down like the sack of shit he was.

Third Guy looked from his Boss being mauled by a large dog, and the woman with murder in her eyes staggering towards him. He decided on self-preservation before rescue, and raised his gun.

Her knife flew through the air, burying itself in his shoulder. She retrieved it none too gently.

"Mako!" she called to the dog, "Enough! Enough!"

The animal barely registered, his thoughts concentrated on the enemy that had attacked his Pack. _Prey, _he snarled, _Prey. Prey of my Pack._

She let her human self sink, let the other mind rise, and snarled a demand.

_Enough! Submit! I am Alpha!_

Watching her features change, Third Guy fainted.

The demand was enough to call off the dog. Boss man gasped in relief as the animal – it was a German Shepherd, he could see now, huge and savage – backed off. She made her way to stand over him, the dog at her side still growling with bared teeth, his blood clotting in its fur.

"What the fuck… did I ever… do to you?" she grated out in a heavy accent.

He coughed, and laughed at her. "You're prey, sweetheart," he smirked, "You can call yourself a Hunter if you like, but you're prey." He let his head fall back. "Go away and heal up," he told her with a smile, "You're practically worthless in that condition."

"Don't come after me again," she hissed at him, "This was just me trying to be… polite. Next time, I might not be so… civilised."

"Next time, I won't be so… careless," he told her.

"Just fuck off, you shit-head," she sighed. She called up her dog, and made to leave.

He was quick. He had his gun out of his belt the second her back was turned.

She was quicker. Before he could pull the trigger, she was there, slashing at his face with the knife. He howled in a combination of outrage and pain.

"Call that a howl?" she spat derisively. "That's not a howl. This is a howl."

She let her features change, threw back her head, and produced a long, keening, penetrating note that made him shudder.

"It could be worse," she told him, "Real wolves mark their prey by pissing on it. Do us both a favour. Don't come looking." She staggered out of the clearing, leaning on her dog.

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><p>Winchesters will be provided in the next chapter, along with swearing and conversation not fit for children or persons of refinement. Spankers, please to bring their own restraints and paddles. (Denizens: they're depraved, even if they do get shit done.)<p> 


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

On the road between Nowheresville and Bumfuck, Somestate, Sam decided he'd had enough.

"All right, spill it," demanded Sam, glaring at his brother.

"Spill what?" Dean shot back.

"It!" Sam snapped. "It! Whatever it is! Spill, bro!"

"You feeling all right, Sam?" Dean asked solicitously. "That was a very large, very antique, very expensive, very heavy dresser that poltergeist decided to drop on your head."

"What? I'm fine! Yeah, it's still a bit of a bruise, but… don't change the subject!" Sam humphed. "I'm bruised, and you're… preoccupied. You're tense, you're worried…"

"What does Doctor Samantha prescribe for job stress?" enquired Dean. "A spa bath and a massage? You're just trying to get your filthy hands on this fine specimen of manhood, I know what you're up to, you perv…"

"Dean," Sam sighed in exasperation as Dean demonstrated his mastery of diversionary tactics. He decided to try reason and rationality, always a long shot with Dean, but he wasn't making any progress anyway. "I'm a bit worried," he continued in a neutral tone. "You've been edgy about something for weeks now, don't tell me you're not. Maybe I can help."

"I very much doubt that," Dean genuinely grinned. A barely noticeable stutter in the running of the Impala's engine wiped the smile from his face. "Hey, hey, Baby," he crooned to the car, one hand lovingly patting the dash, "I know, I know, just hang in there for me, okay?" As it usually did, in completely illogical fashion, the engine responded to his pleas, and settled back into its usual purr.

"So?" prompted Sam.

Dean sighed heavily. "That, Sam," he said mournfully, "You noticed that, didn't you?"

"What, the engine? Yeah, sounded like something shaking around in there."

"That's how bad it is, that you can notice it." Dean sounded forlorn. "It's our girl, Sammy, my Baby, she's… she's not running well."

"That's it?" asked Sam incredulously. "You've been on the internet but not visiting porn sites, disappearing in the middle of the day and not saying where you're going, coming back looking more worried than when you left, even rampant sex with some woman calling herself Mistress Alexandra hardly made you try to gross me out at all with gory details… I've been worried that you're hiding some serious health problem, and it's the car?"

"It_ is_ a serious health problem!" Dean burst out angrily. "She has a serious health problem! Problems, plural!" His hands tightened on the wheel. "Really serious problems," he went on more quietly, unconsciously patting the dash again.

"Okay, I'm sorry," Sam offered placatingly, "Why don't you tell me about the, er, health problems?"

Dean looked miserable. "She's just getting old," he said softly. "It's not her fault. She's a thing a beauty, a magnificent machine, but… machines get old. Break down. She's wearing out, Sam."

"Oh." Sam paused. "Which parts?"

"All of them." Dean was silent.

"But, you can fix her, can't you?" ventured Sam.

"She's our home," Dean said plaintively, "She's been our home, driving us back and forth across the country for practically as long as you've been alive. Do you have any idea how many times she's clocked the odometer?"

"Er, well, no," Sam had to admit.

"Everything's wearing out," Dean reiterated. "She's run for longer, further, than any car is ever designed to run. In simple monetary terms, she's worth more as scrap than as a vehicle… her bore is worn, the pistons are worn, the head has started to pit, the entire engine has had its day. How she hasn't thrown a conrod right through the block, I can only put it down to some sort of mechanical miracle. It's past an overhaul, past rebuild, she needs a whole new one. She's eating oil, and her gas mileage was never spectacularly economical to start with, but now… And don't get me started on her drive train, God, the tolerances in the gearbox are out so far, I wake up sweating at night, thinking about the mess it will make of a cog snaps a tooth…"

"Okay," said Sam, going into problem-solving mode, "Okay, so, what needs to be done?"

"Replacements," Dean told him grimly, "She needs replacement parts."

"Then we talk to Bobby, he's always let you take whatever you can salvage from the yard…"

"Not second hand, not reconditioned, she needs new parts," Dean stated firmly. "It's bad, Sam. Real bad. She needs new. And lots of them."

"All right, so, we make a list, and…"

"Done it," Dean went on gloomily. "It's on the laptop."

"That's great, then," Sam said encouragingly, reaching from the laptop. "So, you got a list, you know what we need. Next, we shop around, get prices on this stuff, then…"

"Done it," Dean said woodenly.

"That's great bro, you've done the research, we're halfway there," Sam told him, trying to coax Dean out of his unhappy preoccupation. "Okay, so… uh, where is it?"

"In my stuff," Dean instructed him, "On the desktop."

"Right. Dean's stuff," Sam clicked the folder, "Porn, Amazing Porn, Pics, Hustler… you download stuff from Hustler?"

"I wrote some stuff for Hustler," Dean informed him. "I just wrote down some of the encounters I've had, and submitted them as articles. They pay for 'em, you know. Except the ones they think are too far fetched."

"You earning money as a writer. Now I really have seen everything," mused Sam, scanning the subdirectories. "Other Porn, BMS – is that it? Baby's Motor Stuff?"

"BlackMailing Sam," smirked Dean. "You probably don't want to look."

"Dude! Okay, we've got Fuglies, Dogs, Other Other Porn, Variations… do I even want to know?"

"The stuff that Hustler rejects, I send to them," Dean told him breezily. "For example, that night I spent with Mistress Alexandra, the things that woman could do with a piece of rope…"

"Dean! Too! Much! Information!" yelped Sam with a high-intensity burst of Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). God!" He kept looking. "EOTWAWKI." What's an eotwawki? Some kind of Native Indian malevolent spirit?"

"End Of The World As We Know It," sighed Dean. "It's in there."

With a very Samesque huff, Sam found the spreadsheet he was looking for. "Right then, so what we have to JUMPING JESUS H. CHRIST ON A FUCKING POGO STICK!"

"Yeah, that's kind of what I said when I added it up, too," Dean said sadly, "Except I wasn't as restrained and polite about it as you."

"That's… oh, fuck," Sam finished lamely. "That's not a decimal point, is it, that's a comma."

"It's a comma," confirmed Dean. "That's just for the parts, using any contacts Bobby could give me, Bobby's friends, Bobby's friends of friends, calling in some favours for us and generally being, you know, Bobbarily awesome."

Sam seemed lost for words. "How do we get that sort of money?" he asked eventually. "That's… I'm sorry, bro, I had no idea. Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"I didn't want to worry you," Dean confessed a bit sheepishly. "The credit card scams won't do it this time – these parts are not common, they require deposits, cleared prior to delivery or pick-up. We need actual, legal tender. And here we are, with no children to sell into slavery." He glanced at Jimi in the back seat. "I suppose we could put you in the movies," he smiled at the dog, who grinned doggily back at him.

"Maybe we could stand him at stud," suggested Sam, "Bobby once said that a dog like him would command a high service fee."

"Thought about it, looked into it," Dean said, "It would cost a small fortune to get it set up. Joint x-rays and examinations, registrations, he'd need a registered pedigree, Crazy Dog People are even more pedantic about their paperwork than the parts distributors."

"Oh." Sam looked sideways at Dean. "Maybe we could stand you at stud," he joked, trying to cheer his brother up.

"Thought about it, looked into it," Dean replied without missing a beat, "Problem is, apart from the sheer wrongness of the Living Sex God charging money, the number of women looking to pay for it is incredibly small compared to male clients. I'd have to work for an agency to make any money in a short length of time, and to minimise the risk of entanglement with the law, that is something we can NOT afford. The supply of would-be male escorts is higher than the female customer demand for them. The whole 'trial period' concept was a total insult."

Sam was staring at him. "You… thought about it?" he asked incredulously. "You actually thought about it? Dean, that was a joke!"

"Of course I thought about it," Dean answered adamantly. "This is my Baby we're talking about. If it was a viable option, I'd do it." He looked speculatively at Sam. "I was led to the confronting and utterly illogical conclusion that you'd do better than me," he added sourly.

"I don't believe that you WHAT?" Sam's jaw dropped.

"One of the madams I spoke to was very sympathetic to our situation," Dean went on, "I showed your picture to her, and she said she could line you up work with a colleague of hers immediately."

"WHAT?" Sam repeated. "Are you serious?"

"You're the type," Dean huffed, apparently miffed, "Really tall, strong chin, nice smile, articulate, college educated and, strangely enough, the hair. She said you were a perfect package deal, exactly the type of guy her colleague was on the look-out for. Could earn that money a lot quicker than me. Go figure," he snorted in disgust.

"I could?" Sam looked bemused.

"You wouldn't even have to do that much," Dean elaborated, "The majority of your work would just be as an escort. You know, go out to dinner or a function with a client, make intelligent conversation, discuss literature, art, politics in an engaging way, make them feel like someone was paying attention to them. Maybe a little goodnight kiss afterwards."

"It would?" squeaked Sam.

"Of course, if you'd be prepared to undertake a bit more, you'd get paid more," Dean pointed out. "You still wouldn't have to do much, though, she told me that this establishment's clients tend to be a bit older, and it's not like they actually want full-blown dangle-from-the-chandelier sex, it's more like a bit of intimate company, you know, maybe get your shirt off and let them see a bit of beefcake, and hug you, that sort of thing."

Sam gulped. "I, er, I don't know if I, er…" he stuttered into silence. "I guess we should, er, consider all, er possible solutions to our, um, financial situation," he finally said, squirming slightly.

"Attaboy, Sammy," Dean smiled at him, "I told you he wouldn't let us down, Baby," he stroked the dash cheerfully.

"So how do we, er, go about, you know…" Sam asked.

"Well, I got the address, if you want to go and meet the madam, just discuss it," offered Dean.

Sam took a deep breath, and let it out. "Okay," he announced, "Okay, it can't hurt to go and talk about it, can it?"

"Absolutely not," agreed Dean. "It's amazing, isn't it?" he went on, "I had no idea, but apparently, there's an enormous number of cashed up, professional older men out there who are just queuing up to pay for your charming company."

"I guess if it's mostly just _WHAT?-!"_ Sam rounded on his brother, his eyes bugging. Dean smiled his most winning _gotcha!_ smile as he started to howl with laughter.

"OWNED, bro! Your face, Sammy, your face!" he laughed gleefully, "Oh, God, the look on your face!"

"Jerk," scowled Sam, nonetheless glad that Dean had finally confided in him. "So, peddling our asses isn't an option. Short of robbery, some sort of employment is probably our best bet."

"Yeah," Dean wheezed into seriousness, "It's just that our girl is likely to shake herself to pieces before we can do that. Besides which, neither of us exactly has an impressive CV for jobs held down in what passes for the normal world."

"This sucks the big one," Sam muttered. He was thoughtful for a few minutes. "Maybe we could find a job that utilises our, er, expertise," he suggested. "There's people who work in our line of work without being Hunters. Occult weapons dealers, artefact dealers, you know, the supply chain. If we could find the right job, it would be pretty lucrative."

"Yeah, look where it got Bela," growled Dean.

"I'm just saying, it might be worthwhile pursuing," Sam pressed, "Money in a hurry."

Dean didn't look completely convinced. "Okay," he finally agreed, "Okay, we put the word out. Maybe Bobby can help."

Bobby could help. The man had a web of contacts across the country and beyond. He knew people, who knew people, who'd heard of people…

Who'd heard of the Winchesters. It turned out to be a name to conjure with.

An enquiry was pressed. An expression of interest was made. A short term of employment was offered. A figure with zeroes on the end was mentioned. A meeting was set up.

It was in a non-descript bar, specified by the Winchesters. There were enough people in their line of work still harbouring lingering resentment for them to watch their backs (although Dean sometimes fantasised about running into Roy and Walt again one day, oh yes, he'd very much like a meeting with them). But the man was there, alone, as he'd said he would be. Not unarmed, of course. The guy was a Hunter, after all.

"Alex Croydon?" They made their way to the table in an open, better lit area of the bar.

"Guilty as charged." He was an older guy, probably about the age their father would have been. That meant that as a Hunter, he was very careful, or very good. He stuck out a hand. "Dean and Sam."

"I'm Dean, that's Sam," Dean told him levelly, not offering his hand. "You have a job for us."

"I do, if you're interested," Croydon said equably, sitting down again. "I'd offer to buy you a drink, if I thought you'd accept it."

A waitress brought two more beers.

"So, what's the job?" asked Dean, swigging from his own beer. "You need back-up on a Hunt?"

"Definitely," Croydon told them, "This is a job I can't handle on my own. If you think we need to, I can get more guys on board. Thought I'd see what you thought, first."

"So, what are we talking about here?" Sam asked.

"Werewolf," Croydon said.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "You want our help to gank a werewolf?" Dean asked. "You're offering to pay us to help gank a werewolf?"

"Oh no," smiled the older man. "I don't want to kill it." He smiled, making the scar that ran the length of one side of his face pucker. "I want to catch it."

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><p>For my birthday, I would like some reviews, please. Or some chocolate. If you can't squash chocolates flat enough to shove them into the CD drive and PM them to me, it'll have to be reviews. Although if you could keep working on the sending-chocolates-via-the-interwebs thing, I'd be grateful for that too. (Be warned: crumbs from KitKats mess with the laser head.)<p> 


	3. Chapter 2

Thank you for the kind birthday wishes, O Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In. Since we seem to have a bit of interest, I shall continue with this as and when prompted by the eebil plot bunnies.

I have to say, I'm a bit surprised that there was not a longer queue for Winchester spanking. Does this mean that the Denizens are making some sort of effort to Keep Themselves Nice?

**aeicha:** A spanking! A spanking!

**PaulatheCat:** *claps hands for attention* And after the spanking...

**Sam:** What happens after the spanking?

**Dean:** *leers* You're not a Monty Python fan, are you?

**Sam:** Are llamas involved?

**Dean:** *faints*

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

The Winchesters stared at the older Hunter as though he'd just suggested sticking their heads into an industrial mincer. Which probably wasn't a bad metaphor for what he was suggesting.

"Catch a werewolf," repeated Dean. "You want to catch, not gank, a werewolf."

"And not just a common-or-garden werewolf," smiled Croydon, "An Old North werewolf."

"Holy crap," breathed Sam, exchanging a look with his brother.

"You've encountered one before?" the enquiry was polite.

"Yeah," confirmed Sam, "We've tangled with one. Two, actually. A father and son."

"Really?" Croydon was suddenly intent. "What happened?"

"We dealt with them," Dean told him. "Our dog brought down the adult, and we… dealt with the juvenile."

The older man looked intrigued. "Your dog?" he repeated thoughtfully. "I know a few who Hunt with dogs, but none would take them against and Old North wolf," he explained. "It would be too much like taking a knife to a gun fight."

"Jimi did it, before he was fully grown," Dean smirked, a hint of pride in his voice. "Grabbed the damned thing by the throat and choked it out until we could gank it."

"An adult male?" Croydon persisted.

"All seven ugly feet of it," Dean confirmed.

"Extraordinary," mused their would-be employer. "Is he a Wildhunt dog, then?"

"He has… a different bloodline, with certain… talents," Sam answered.

"Excellent!" smiled Croydon. "I would very much like to meet him. He sounds like a remarkable animal. Worthy of his Hunters."

"Why try to take it alive in wolf form?" Dean wanted to know. "Wouldn't it be easier to grab one in human form?"

Croydon gave him a long look. "What we do, the job we do," he began, "It skirts the edge of the law. You understand that. It's something we deal with as best we can."

He paused, then went on. "Sometimes it's clear-cut. A black dog, a chupacabra, a djinn, a demon, these things are monsters, and we don't think twice. We dispatch them. But, what about the things that were human, can be almost-human, mostly human?" He looked thoughtful. "Vampires. Nasty, immoral, murderous. Most of 'em, anyway. They were human, just not any more. Rugarus. Were human. With a great strength of will, they can keep themselves otherwise harmless. Should we gank them, if that's what they struggle to do? Werewolves, now, I find them tricky. They're mostly human. When they're not wolves, they're… well, they're just people. Harder to kill, and they might notice that they're getting better results than they expected at the gym, but to all intents and purposes, they're people." He looked at Dean steadily. "It's a fine line between grabbing a werewolf at the full moon, and abducting and imprisoning a person then waiting from them to change. If nothing else, it's a way of avoiding entanglement with the law. And humans think more clearly. In purely practical terms, it's actually harder to keep a human safely contained than a wolf."

Dean looked disbelieving. "If you think I'm being stupid about it, you're entitled to think that," Croydon told him, "I wouldn't be paying you to applaud me for any moral slant I have on the situation, I would be paying you to tackle a werewolf. Instead of killing it, I want it alive, and unhurt."

"Why?" Sam wanted to know, "Why alive, and why unhurt?"

"I wouldn't be paying you to be nosy, either," Croydon answered pleasantly.

"My brother asked you a reasonable question, Alex," Dean said equally pleasantly.

After a moment's thought, Croydon went on. "All right then," he conceded, "I'm after the teeth."

"Teeth?" echoed both Winchesters.

"Teeth," confirmed Croydon. "They're worth money," he shrugged, "If you know how to get hold of them intact, without getting torn to pieces."

"So, how do you get them without getting torn to pieces?" asked Sam in horrified fascination.

"It's not easy," Croydon smiled, toying with his beer, "You have to find the werewolf, and that's not easy because Old North wolves are rarer than the home-grown ones, and can gain a limited self-awareness that can lead them to hide themselves away at the full moon. Then, you have to get hold of the wolf in wolf form, and trap it alive. Then, you have to restrain it, so it doesn't decide to snack on your intestines, or hurt itself, then you have to administer a dose of a veterinary sedative – not too much, or it will revert to human form, or worse, die – then, well, it's a bit of doggy dentistry, on a much larger scale. It doesn't affect their human dentition, and next time they shapeshift, they have a brand new honest-to-Murgatroyd werewolf Colgate smile." He sat back. "That's why you need it alive. Unhurt, well, I thought that would be obvious."

"Let's pretend it's not," Dean's smile didn't go anywhere near his eyes.

Croydon's face became hard. "All right. How about, because I might want its teeth, but I don't get any pleasure from the idea of deliberately causing it pain? Will that do?" He sat back with a sigh. "Look, the job offer is there," he told them, "I've identified one, in Montana, and the full moon is in a couple of days. I'd like your help to grab it, then that's the end of your job. You take your money, and drive away, and leave the dentistry to me and my associate. If you're not interested, well, I thank you for hearing me out, but you'll have to excuse me, because I'll need to rustle up some other help…"

"What do you do with the wolf after you have the teeth?" Sam demanded.

Croydon's face fell. "That depends," he said slowly. "If it's one that's been keeping itself out of trouble, I try to leave it close to home. If it's been hunting, attacking, well, I put a couple of silver rounds through its head before it wakes up." His expression was regretful. "I told you, I don't get off on causing pain."

The Winchesters exchanged a look. "Would you excuse us a moment?" Dean said politely, heading for the other side of the bar with Sam.

"I'm not completely happy about this," Sam told him.

"Neither am I," agreed Dean, "Taking an Old North wolf alive is a damned dangerous idea, even with Jimi full grown now to help us..."

"That's not what I mean," interrupted Sam, "Well, apart from that. The guy gives me the creeps."

"Of course he gives you the creeps," Dean scoffed, "He's a frustrated dentist. The idea of putting your hands anywhere near a werewolf's mouth is seriously creepy…"

"No, not that either, I mean…" Sam shook his head. "I dunno, there's something… "

"Sam, we need this money," Dean told him earnestly. "Seriously, our girl is in real trouble. And you heard him, he doesn't want it hurt. Yeah, I think he's a nut job, but he's a nut job who's willing to pay us."

Sam humphed. "Okay," he agreed, finally, "Okay, we take the job. But I don't like it."

Dean grinned at him. "That's it, you be Dean's brave little soldier," he clapped his brother on the back, "Let's go get directions. Montana sounds good. Do you know how many craft breweries there are in Montana?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was the dog he noticed first – a fine-boned Rottweiler bitch with a decidedly feminine face and intelligent eyes. _Show dog?_ he wondered, until it turned around, back to its owner, and he saw the two faint scars along its flank. Rehomed, then, maybe, a showing career cut short by some accident. Doing well in obedience instead, if the way she stuck to her owner was any indication…

It quickly became apparent that the owner had scars of her own, including one that ran the length of her left cheek. _How did you get that?_ he found himself wondering.

His habit of making up stories describing the backgrounds of people, those he knew or complete strangers – sometimes acute observations, sometimes ludicrously outlandish fictions – was something he'd started doing as a child. It had, through the years, discomfited his parents, worried his teachers, amused his fellow students, gotten him into trouble with more than one humourless CO (although on one memorable occasion his squad had bought him beer for a week, and pestered him for regular updates for the rest of that tour), and currently had the potential to reduce his workmates to hysterical laughter on a slow day in the workshop.

Tuesday's effort had been the detailed description of the tragic performing past of the large and rather rude lady who'd brought her Volvo in for a malfunctioning water pump: she'd been a promising opera singer, he'd told them, until she'd developed Diva's Disease, which drove her to eat her leading men after mating with them, like some Baroque Black Widow. She'd been shuttled from one opera company to the next, getting fatter and fatter as she consumed the finest, juiciest tenors the country had to offer, but it got worse, to the point where during the off-season she had been a special guest in a children's Christmas musical, and had actually attempted to eat the pantomime horse on stage, but only after she tried to mate with it first, with thousands of curious kiddies looking on and asking "Mommy Mommy what's The Christmas Fairy trying to do with Horsie?"

"-drew. Andrew!" He snapped back into focus at the insistent nagging tone of Kelly's voice. (That was redundant; every time the sulky teen at the till said something, it was in a nagging tone.) "I need you to help a customer," she went on, with a sigh and an eye-roll suggesting that both mechanic and customer had set out intentionally to ruin her entire day just by existing.

"Yeah, sure, Kel," he smiled, going out to meet the woman, wiping his hands on a shop rag. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

She turned to face him, and he almost stepped back. The sheer strength of the 'Don't-Fuck-With-Me' field she projected made it almost palpable. "I'm after wiper blades for that," she jerked a thumb at her truck, "Damned things have disintegrated. You got any in stock?"

"Yeah, no problem," he assured her. The accent surprised him. He'd been on the brink of casually asking her where she'd served, and was glad he didn't. She'd seemed the type, until she opened her mouth. Or maybe she had, after all, there had been at least a dozen nationalities...

"Jesus, Andrew, how many times do I have to tell you?" Kelly whined at him when he'd fetched the part, "Get – me – the – parts – _code!_"

"It's on the tag, Kel. There. The numbers. In a line. Where it says 'part number'," he added helpfully, smiling brightly. The woman, waiting at the counter, swallowed a snort of amusement.

"What are you laughing at?" Kelly challenged her petulantly.

The scarred face regarded her intently, thoughtfully, with a gaze that put Andrew in mind of a bored cat watching an interesting mouse it had cornered. As the woman stared, the sneer faded from Kelly's face, to be replaced with something more akin to fright.

Finally, the woman smiled – well, if he was honest, she bared her teeth, and answered the girl. "You."

Kelly dropped her eyes, and fumbled the change out of the till, handing it over without touching the calloused hand. Like a striking snake, the hand shot out, and closed on the girl's wrist. The woman pulled her close, leaning down to peer into Kelly's wide eyes.

"You," she pronounced carefully, with the teeth-baring smile, "Are a rude little girl."

As quickly as she'd struck, she was standing up again, face composed. "Thank you," she said politely to Andrew, leaving the counter, her dog still following her closely.

Leaving a shell-shocked Kelly behind, he followed her out. "I can swap those for you, if you like," he offered, "It'll only take a minute."

"Thanks, but I can do it," she told him, motioning the dog into the truck. She was pleasantly polite, but the Don't-Fuck-With-Me field didn't waver.

"Seriously, I do these all the time," he went on, "And I really don't want to go back and listen to her snivel about being threatened by the crazy woman," he added frankly, indicating Kelly. "Please? Have mercy. Just five minutes away from that self-obsessed little cow. It's worse than having Paris Hilton show up unannounced for dinner. You have no idea. Take pity on me."

The woman cocked her head... and gave him a smile that took his breath away. It went all the way to her eyes, and lit up her face. "Is she like that all the time?" she asked.

"Worse. That was toned down. She's on her best behaviour in front of customers," he answered plaintively. He knew he was wearing what his mother referred to has his 'kicked dog' expression. "She snarks. She snipes. She whines. She snaps her gum. God, the gum, she chews like a camel. Only not as politely."

"Does she spit when she gets annoyed?" the woman cocked an eyebrow in amusement.

"Probably. I usually find somewhere to hide before then," he confided. Kicked-dog, kicked-dog, kicked-dog…

"Fine," she handed over the wiper blades, "You do it then. Save yourself from The Rampaging Feral Emo Kid."

It took all of a minute to swap them over, but he found himself lingering. "So, I'm guessing you're not from around here," he ventured.

"And you'd be right," she agreed, pleasantly polite again, not volunteering anything.

"So, what brings you to Big Sky Country?" he asked.

"Work," she answered, still polite, but unengaging.

"So, er, you go around calling out whiny little emo bitches who need slapping, for a living?" he pressed.

A low-wattage version of_ that_ smile appeared. "Nah, I do that in my spare time, just for fun," she told him. She appeared to come to a decision. "Promise me you won't laugh."

"Okay, I won't laugh," he agreed.

"I'm here to write about the mad dog attacks," she told him.

"Mad dog attacks," he echoed in confusion.

"Mad dog attacks," she nodded. "I do some writing for an online paper called Weekly World News."

"Never heard of it," he admitted.

"Your ignorance does you credit. One of the best received series of articles was about the romance between Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. I like the mermaids better."

"That good, huh?" he asked.

"It pays," she shrugged.

"What mad dog attacks are these?" he asked. "There have been a couple of dog attack incidents in the last year, but it's probably some feral mutt that's hungry, and has come into town looking for garbage."

"You know that, and I know that," she said, "But the readers don't want to hear a rational explanation about a big stray dog that's probably more scared than it is scary – they want to read about the crazed mutated monster dog, that was flushed down the toilet as a puppy and grew into a giant slavering creature in the sewers, before it burst out onto the world, and is now taking its revenge on humans by attacking them at the full moon and devouring them whole..."

He found he was laughing. "People want to read that? They really want to be bullshitted like that?"

"I'll write in some aliens to make the whole thing more credible," she shrugged.

"Oh God," he kept laughing, "Are you serious?"

"As serious as mutated sewer dog monsters," she confirmed. "I'm supposed to find a couple of old-timers, interview them about the crazed mutant dog, or the aliens, whatever they'll agree to ramble about, then write the story. It always pays better if I can work in some anal probing, don't ask me why."

"You make my life seem suddenly very boring," he said. "Well, enjoy your alien spotting while you're here..."

She looked at him thoughtfully, then stuck out a hand. "Ronnie," she said, "Ronnie Shepherd."

He took her hand. "Andrew Jaeger," he replied.

"Enjoy your whining emo kid," she grinned. "Maybe just slap her, and claim aliens made you do it."

"Don't tempt me," he muttered, watching her truck pull out onto the tar.

"Earth to Andrew, Earth to Andrew, come in Andrew." A shop rag hit him in the back of the head. He threw it back at his grinning workmate.

"What the fuck did she say to Kelly?" Kevin demanded to know, "The little shit hasn't said a word for the last five minutes!"

"Yeah, who was that mysterious woman who flew in to save us from the boss's daughter?" gasped Dan melodramatically. "Save me, oh, save me from Kelly, mysterious woman!"

"Did you get her number?" leered Kevin.

"Did her dog like you?" pressed Dan, "I know the type, if her dog doesn't like you, you don't have a chance…"

Andrew grinned, and threw the rag back at Kevin. "She's an emo hunter," he intoned seriously, "She goes around, sniffing out emo kids in need of slapping, and scaring the shit out of them."

"How do I get me a job like that?" his colleague wanted to know.

"Oh, it's a long, and kind of sad story," Andrew began, "She was abandoned as a child, and raised in the sewers by mutant dogs on a diet of emo kids snatched from parks, and ingesting all that mascara at such an early age gave her super powers…"

He went back to the brake overhaul on the Jeep he was working on, as the others guffawed over his explanation of The Mysterious Emo Hunter, even as he found himself wondering how she'd really got that scar.

* * *

><p><strong>Sam:<strong> We got out of that pre-chapter author's ramble just in time. You were in great peril.

**Dean:** I don't think I was.

**Sam:** Yes, you were. You were in terrible peril.

**Dean: **Look, let me go back there and face the peril.

**Sam:** No, it's too perilous.

**Dean: **Look, it's my duty as a Hunter and Living Sex God to sample as much peril as I can.

**Sam:** No, we've got to find the werewolf. Come on.

**Dean:** Oh, let me have just a little bit of peril?

**Sam: **No. It's unhealthy.

**Dean: **I bet you're gay.


	4. Chapter 3

So, all we have to sort out now is who (aeicha and PaulatheCat) is going to spank whom. I'll leave you two to work that out.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

"…And a very short, yet I'm sure extremely interesting detour west, will take us along the Great Divide Brewery Trail!" Dean said happily as they hit the Great Falls area. "We'll have some cash left over, so we can spend a couple of days winding down and supporting the local economy, getting behind the entrepreneurial spirits who have made this great country of ours what it is today." He smiled his most winning smile.

"Right, check out the beer, got it," groaned Sam. Since taking a job that was going to pay for his car's refit, Dean had brightened up considerably, returning almost to his usual level of cheerful annoyingness. "All we have to do is catch a werewolf alive without getting torn to shreds, then we can go get drunk. Fun on a stick. Why didn't we ever think to try this before?"

"C'mon, Sam, don't be a buzzkill," Dean wheedled. "Tomorrow morning, we'll be rich! Well, for a little while, at least." He patted the dash lovingly.

"For a given value of 'rich'," qualified Sam. "I still have my doubts about this thing. I mean, pulling its teeth out?"

"So?" Dean turned to him. "How is it different to what we do? We usually bury or burn the carcass – he's found a way to make some money from it. Good for him. Maybe not our thang, but it's no different to skinning a rabbit and selling the fur." Dean looked thoughtful. "We do a tidy job, he might even employ us again sometime."

"Are you saying you'd be happy to work for this guy?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"That's not what I said!" Dean snapped back. "How often do we get paid for what we do, huh? Actually paid, paid with money, money that we can use to live off? And have we ever been paid what a job would be worth?"

Sam gave him a long look. "I thought it was the saving people that was important," he said finally.

"It is!" Dean retorted hotly. "Look, all I'm saying is, the occasional job that pays this well, for something we know how to do, it would make things, you know, a bit easier." He looked sideways at his brother. "For a start, you'll be able to afford a haircut. And some new shirts. And some shower stuff that doesn't make you smell like a sixteen-year-old girl."

"How would you know what a sixteen-year-old girl smells like?" Sam asked disapprovingly.

"Because when I was a sixteen-year-old boy, I got to smell a lot of sixteen-year-old girls," Dean smirked smugly. "They all smelled like flowers, or cotton candy, because they liked to use matching scented soaps and shampoo. They all smelled like you. You wouldn't know, of course, because when you were a sixteen-year-old boy, you were jerking off with a thesaurus in your other hand. Oh, thesaurus!" Dean trilled in a breathy falsetto, "That feels wonderful! Amazing! Sensational! Fantastic! Faaaaabulous!"

"Jerk." Sam subsided. He'd done some research, and had found that werewolf's teeth did indeed contain powerful mojo, and were largely in demand for shamanistic protection and fortification rituals. Adult dogs and adult wolves had 42 teeth, so it was plausible to infer that werewolves did too, which would probably make it worthwhile.

"I thought you'd be right on board with the whole humae euthanasia thing," Dean humphed. "Don't let the thing suffer, it doesn't even know what it is." He looked thoughtful. "Is this… Sammy, is this about Madison?" he asked, unexpectedly gently.

"No!" Sam snapped, "No, it's not about Madison, it's not about the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Werewolves, it's just… it's just creepy.," he finished lamely. "This whole gig is… creepy. Alex Croydon is creepy."

"Okay," Dean said placatingly, "Okay, let's just get the job done, get paid, and get my Baby all fixed up. You can help me."

"How?" asked Sam. "You won't let me touch her. You say I'm not fit to wipe the oil from her dipstick."

"You can help, in your own limited capacity," Dean offered generously. "You can fetch me beer." He looked thoughtful. "I may let you degrease some parts. If you manage that without screwing it up, I might permit you to clean some windows, maybe vacuum the interior…"

"Gee, thanks," snorted Sam.

They met up with Croydon early in the evening.

"Hey there, boys," he greeted them warmly, smiling when he saw Jimi. "Well, he is a fine-looking animal!" he exclaimed. "You must be Jimi. Do you shake hands?"

He made to pat Jimi's head, but the dog drew his lips back into a snarl, emitting a growl so low it was practically subsonic.

To his credit, the man didn't move; he merely raised one eyebrow and regarded the dog thoughtfully. "I can appreciate a guy who doesn't give his trust away lightly," he nodded, "I get where you're coming from, big guy."

"It's a trait of the breed," Dean said dismissively, "They can be aloof with strangers, and protective of their people. They're choosy about who they get friendly with."

"Huh. If only more people could be as up-front as him," Croydon grinned.

He'd done his research, identified the pattern of the sightings and attacks that had occurred, and had pegged the most likely place, a tract of open parkland near the Missouri River.

"How do you know it's an Old North wolf, and not homegrown one?" asked Sam.

"The reported sightings have all referred to a large wolf-like dog," Croydon told them. "Some sightings and attacks have occurred on the day before the full moon proper, which is a crucial difference. Bite marks on the victims have been consistent with an authentic canine jaw, rather than a humanoid one. Old North claws leave nastier wounds, too. And they're few and far between." He pointed to the map. "I think there might have been one here for years," he told them, "And usually, it stays out of sight, under the radar. But in the last six months, there have been four attacks, two of them fatal."

"What about the survivors?" Dean asked.

"One died in a motorcycle accident before the next full moon, the other was an old guy who smoked like a chimney, had a heart attack before he could turn," snorted Croydon. "But this thing is getting more careless, or more bloodthirsty. It's not covering its tracks and keeping its head down as consistently as it used to. On the plus side, it's getting more predictable. So, that's where you two come in."

It was a straightforward plan: Croydon handed over pistols loaded with darts primed with his werewolf sedative concoction. Draw the thing out, double team it, let Jimi challenge it and distract it until one of them could dart it. They had their own silver knives and ammo to be used as a last resort, if it all went south.

"Remember, I don't want it hurt," he reiterated. "You kill it, it reverts to human and is worthless. Don't wound it unless you have no choice. You hurt it unnecessarily, I'll dock your pay, that's the deal."

"Play gentle with the poor little werewolf, got it," Dean confirmed. "We'll call you when it's down."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Just on dusk, Andrew was on his way home when he saw the dusty truck in the lot of a bar. The dog was sitting in the bed, watching the world go by with a relaxed expression. Without thinking too hard about what he was doing, he pulled off the road.

"Hey there, girl," he said softly to the dog, approaching carefully. She gave him a look of piercing intelligence, then stretched her nose out to him. He obliged by offering his hand. She sniffed briefly, licked his hand twice, then cocked her head, whuffed at him, and help up a paw.

"Well, nice to meet you too, I guess," he smiled, shaking the proffered paw. She grinned a doggy grin at him, circled a couple of times, then rolled over, legs in the air and huge mournful eyes gazing up at him, in the universal canine appeal for a belly rub.

"You know, if you're out here as an alarm system, I'm sure you're supposed to be barking your head off about now," he grinned at her as he obliged, and she squirmed and panted happily, tongue lolling.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded a voice behind him. Andrew and the dog both jumped as if they'd been shot.

"Oh, er, I, er…" he stuttered. Ronnie stood, arms hanging loose, staring at him in a way that made him feel jumpy. "I was, er," he gestured at the dog, who sat up looking slightly guilty. "She wanted, er, I just came over to say hi, and, er…" he stuttered into silence.

Ronnie smiled, but it wasn't _that_ smile, which he suddenly thought he'd really like to see again. "I wasn't talking to you," she told him.

"Oh. Er, okay." He edged away from the dog. She followed him. Fuck, was the damned thing trying to _hide_ behind him?

"You are supposed to be minding the truck," Ronnie said evenly. The dog cocked her head and whined. Perhaps as a distraction tactic, she wagged her tail, and began to kiss Andrew lavishly on the ear.

"Ew! Yarg!" he yelped, shrugging and jumping away at the sudden wet sloppy tongue in his ear. "Um, look, don't be angry at her, it's my fault," he started, "I saw her, and came over to say hello…"

"And you rolled over and threw your legs in the air like a damned hooker," Ronnie huffed at her dog with a small smile, moving in to scratch the animal's ears. "Jesus, Joni, I'd expect that from your brother, but not you." The dog panted happily, and butted against her hand for more pats.

"How's the alien spotting going?" Andrew ventured.

"No little green men yet, but I found a guy in there who's certain that Elvis is living locally," she replied. "Of course, I think it might have been his good friend Jack who told him that."

"So, heading off, then?" he asked. A small voice inside his head kicked him in the brain. _Idiot! Idiot! Of course she's heading off! What, you think she just came out here to look at you?_

"Yeah," she said, "Gotta go run that laptop red-hot."

"Oh. I guess there's no point in me, uh, offering to buy you a beer at this point?" he burbled. The small voice face-palmed audibly. _Oh, smooth, real smooth…_

" 'Fraid not, I really have to get going." She made a small noise to the dog, and it jumped out of the tray and into the cab. "I'm really sorry about the tongue in the ear thing," she said ruefully.

"Oh, that's okay, if you hadn't said anything, I'd have sworn it was the dog," he blurted out.

_Oh god, _wailed the small voice.

"Er, I mean, I don't mind the occasional tongue in my ear, from an attractive female…" he stammered to a halt.

The small voice fell to its knees and banged its head. _Id – i – ot!_

She cocked an eyebrow at him, and seemed genuinely amused. "Oh. Well, I'm glad you two were able to, er, pleasure each other briefly," she said pleasantly, trying and failing to suppress a smile. "But we really do have to get going. You'll have to adore each other from afar." She climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine. "Enjoy your beer."

_I__ hope you choke on it,_ muttered the small voice.

She gave him a small wave as she left, the dog giving him a happy goodbye bark as the truck passed him.

He sighed. _No wonder you've been single for so long,_ sniped the grumpy little voice in his head,_ Not that you'd remember what to do with a woman if one fell on you. Can you even remember who gets tied up and who wears the nurse's uniform? I mean, seriously, how did you ever get laid in the first place? __No, really, what worked, in the end? Alcohol? Money? Chloroform?_

"Asking nicely, if you must know," he muttered, then stopped and groaned. Great. Just great. Now he was talking to himself. He was arguing with himself. He was bitching at himself.

"Fuck it," he sighed, heading for the bar. Maybe if he drank enough, he'd see Elvis too. He was probably sharing a house somewhere with the guys who faked the moon landing.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

All things considered, it could've been worse.

Croydon was right, the werewolf was getting more careless and more predictable. It showed up within minutes of the time window he'd suggested was most likely. Dean barely had time to don his stupid fishing had, and cast his line into the water, while Sam and Jimi hid in the trees, Sam griping about idiot big brothers and their readiness to use themselves as bait.

It came out of the treeline at full rush, not in a silent and stealthy hunting approach, but snarling and slavering. The moment it appeared, Jimi was off like a black streak, eyes red and Hellhound teeth bristling.

Sam manoeuvred to get behind it as Jimi approached, snarling a challenge of his own. The wolf turned away from Dean, taking in Jimi and Sam, apparently confused by the presence of two more opponents.

As it hesitated, both Winchesters saw that it was not an impressive specimen, certainly nothing like the seven foot, heavily muscled adult male in its prime that Jimi had brought down when he was younger. It was barely taller than Sam, though its back appeared more bowed than even a werewolf's unnatural anatomy would account for. Its fur was dull grey, and sparse in places, and it was not heavily built. It looked old.

It snarled angrily, and made a decision. It charged at Dean.

He brought the pistol to bear on it, but at the last minute it made a sudden evasive move, and knocked the weapon from his hand with a backhanded swipe, sending him sprawling. Before it could pounce on Dean, Jimi was in motion again, ploughing into it. The wolf rolled with the impact, letting the dog go past, and came up on its feet, letting the momentum carry it into a four-legged lope straight for Sam.

He raised his dart pistol, but again the thing closed in and dodged. He felt its claws rake his side before it let out an audible 'oof' as Jimi circled around and hit it again, nipping at its hocks, then circling in front of it, barking and snarling in challenge.

"Dean!" Sam called, heading for his brother.

" 'Mfine," Dean muttered, staggering upright, " 'Mfine, where's my pistol?"

Sam found it and shoved it back into Dean's hand as the thing lunged for Jimi. The dog scooted out of the way, then darted back in to bite at its legs again.

"Scrawny damned thing," Dean went on, "It's old."

"Yeah, old and sneaky," replied Sam, "You don't get to be that old if you don't know how to stay alive…"

The wolf suddenly dropped to its haunches and struck out. Jimi was sent sprawling and yelping across the grass. It turned back to the brothers.

"Split up!" shouted Dean, pushing away from Sam. "Hey, Lassie!" he yelled at the wolf, "That all you got, huh? Werepussy is more like it."

It let out a snarling bellow, spun and charged at Sam. He took aim, fired…

And missed.

"Fuck!" he shouted, drawing his own gun loaded with silver ammo. Job be damned, he wasn't going to let the damned thing eat him, not even so Dean could get his car fixed…

Jimi hit the wolf at head height, teeth buried in its throat. It let out another angry bellow, but the dog hung on grimly, weighing it down as he choked it.

Dean approached cautiously from behind, and put a dart into its haunch, calling Jimi off.

The wolf let out a single yipping cry, and collapsed, panting. It continued to make intermittent grunting noises, until it finally lay still, flanks rising and falling gently.

Sam approached, his gun trained on it. "Is it… is the damned thing _snoring_?" he asked.

"I don't care if it's whistling Dixie," replied Dean grimly, wincing as he pulled out his phone, "It's down for the count. You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam inspected his side where the claws had raked him. "Don't think I need stitches. Gonna sting like a bitch to clean though. You?"

"I'll live," Dean told him. "Yeah, Croydon, we got Fido ready for pick-up. Yeah, one dart. Not really, maybe a bit around the throat where the dog pulled him down. Okay." He shut the phone. "He'll be here in five."

Croydon arrived with another man whom he didn't introduce. His associate made ready to drag the werewolf into the back of the truck. Their employer was impressed with their work, if not with the wolf. "Shame he's such a scrawny thing, really. Still, there's barely a mark on him," he noted, "Well done. Nice work, Jimi," he praised the dog, "Perhaps I should offer you a job."

Jimi curled his lip.

"Are you boys all right?" Croydon asked, "No bites?"

"Couple of scratches is all," Dean told him.

"That's good to hear," the older Hunter smiled. "Now, I believe there is the small matter of payment for a job well done…"

He handed a bag to Dean. "Thank you, boys," he said, "I've worked with a lot of Hunters, but not many who've tied up a job this quick and neat. It's been a pleasure working with a couple of professionals. You ever feel the need for paid employment again, give me a call. Next time, maybe we should organise a fee for Jimi, too." He stuck out his hand.

This time, Dean shook it, and so did Sam, if less readily. "Glad we could be of help to each other," Dean told him.

"We'll take it from here. Thanks again, boys."

He watched them leave, and heard their car start up and drive away.

"All secured," his taciturn companion announced. "You want anything else?"

"Besides that dog?" Croydon snorted, and shook his head. "Let's get going. It's going to be a long night."

It would have been, long and bloody, except for one slight problem they encountered on the way back to the warehouse.

Maybe the old wolf was tougher than he looked. Maybe Croydon had miscalculated the dose. Maybe the dart plunger had not fully depressed. Maybe the old monster was just sandbagging the whole time – after all, very few wolves made it to any sort of age without being as cunning as shit-house rats...

Whatever the problem, when the back of the truck opened, it gutted Croydon's assistant with a single swipe, and headed for cover before he could draw a bead on it.

* * *

><p>For the Monty Python fans: Reviews are the Imperilled Winchesters in the Castle Anthrax of Life!<p>

For the not Monty Python fans: Please leave me reviews, they give me a happy and inspire me to write more.


	5. Chapter 4

Just to clarify, for the viewers at home: Rumsfeld's litter is full-grown now - this takes place after 'Teething Trouble' and 'Prince Charming'. The Winchesters have met Ronnie. She and Sam get along well; Sam has been in occasional contact with her, regarding Jimi's training or other Hunter's dog matters, but Dean still dislikes her intensely. The feeling is fairly mutual. Oh, and Dean is NOT in on the Big Hairy Secret. Bobby, Sam and Jimi know, they've just thought it's best not to tell Dean. They're right.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

A week later, Andrew would wonder if it was his own fault for drinking so much. Or trying to drive himself home. Or listening to that stupid, imaginary fucking voice.

He knew he'd probably had more to drink than was completely and entirely sensible, so he was being especially careful on the way home. It was dark, but not too late; he lived well out of town, and the cops would be more interested in looking for young idiots out to bust heads (their own or someone else's) on a Friday night. Especially careful: did all his head checks, indicated with plenty of time, frequent mirror checks, awareness of his surroundings. Which was probably why he noticed that damned dusty truck off the road, in some scrub. _Fucking pattern recognition habits,_ he cursed. Admittedly, there had been a time when it was a useful talent for staying alive, but now, it was just a pain in the ass...

He slowed. A number of scenarios scrolled through his head. Ronnie was lost. Ronnie had broken down. Ronnie had crashed. Ronnie had been carjacked by drug-crazed Armenian gangster sex slave smugglers. Ronnie had gone looking for aliens. She wasn't _really_ looking for aliens, was she? That bit about aliens had been a joke, right? Aliens, and probing...

_Did you seriously just think the words 'Ronnie' and 'probing' in the same thought_? The inner voice leered.

He hit the brakes, and pulled off the road. At the very least, he should check that she was all right. It's what a good citizen would do for anybody at this time of the night, right?

_It's a fine line between good citizen and creepy stalker,_ the little voice warned.

"I thought I drowned you," he muttered. After a moment's thought, he pulled the 9mm Beretta out from under the seat, and tucked it into his waistband. The smartass little voice laughed at him. He ignored it.

He made his way silently through the scrubby vegetation towards the river. She was sitting with her back to him, apparently just looking out over the water. It looked very peaceful. But something was wrong...

Where was the dog? Joni. She hadn't been at the truck; she wasn't with Ronnie. Somehow, that was very wrong...

His sense of danger, so long unused and dormant, stood up and screamed at him.

Something came snarling out of the treeline, and for a moment he thought it must be Joni, but his hindbrain knew better – his legs were running and his hand was drawing his gun before his mind had time to catch up with the actions.

He bellowed a warning – "Ronnie! Behind you!" – and fired at the slavering… _thing_ closing in on her.

She was on her feet instantly, and he saw the expression of utter horror on her face the moment she turned, frozen in shock. Not at the animal, he realised in some confusion, she was horrified to see him.

The dog – 'dog', it had to be a dog, because his brain refused to process what his eyes were actually seeing – turned, and charged at him. He stood his ground, and emptied the clip into it. It didn't even slow down. He put the last one into it practically at point blank before it crashed into him, jaws gaping, and clamped down on his shoulder, snarling and tearing.

He let out a scream of pain as the thing worried at him like a terrier with a rat, biting at his shoulder, his neck, gouging at him with claws like sharpened garden forks. Hitting it was useless – it was like trying to punch a steer carcass. It was the biggest fucking dog he'd ever seen, and 9mm rounds hadn't touched it _fucking big dog_ and it was _trying to eat him…_

The thing _monster monster sewermonsterdog_ suddenly rolled sideways off him with a grunt as a black shape rocketed through the air and ploughed into it. It looked like another dog, only a real dog this time, not a fucking monster dog, and the name 'Joni' popped into his head, only it couldn't be, because this dog had eyes that glowed red like fanned embers and its mouth bristled with teeth that would scare a bear…

Sharkmouthdog threw itself at monsterdog _monster monster_ but his vision started to phase out then. He shut his eyes, and grabbed at his mauled shoulder with his good arm. The horrible squelchy feel of meat made his stomach lurch. Don't puke, he instructed himself sternly, don't puke, not lying on your back (inhalation of regurgitated gastric contents resulting in asphyxiation remember that it will be on the test gentlemen)…

The crack of several more shots shocked him back to awareness, then Ronnie was standing there, over the dog-thing, gun in hand, and he knew he was suffering the effects of blood loss (list the symptoms of hypovolaemic shock for me, Private Jaeger) because for a moment he thought that Ronnie had those bear-teeth too…

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she was muttering, as she dropped to her knees beside him, inspecting the bites, "What the hell are you doing here? Oh, Jesus suffering fuck, what a mess."

"I saw your truck and came to see if you needed any help with the drug-crazed Armenian gangster sex slave smugglers," his brain supplied. What actually came out was a choking gurgle.

"Don't try to talk," she told him, opening a field dressing what the hell was she doing carrying that well of course he didn't have one with him (fuck he'd get torn a new one for that if he was caught out and why do we always use the casualty's own dressing?) oh fuck it really hurt…

"Here, hold this, if you can," she tore off her plaid shirt, wadded it on top of the dressing, then grabbed his hand, and put it on his shoulder. He felt something wet nudging at his face; Joni, the proper Joni, with large dark worried eyes, whining anxiously and licking worriedly at his face.

"You have to roll sideways," she told him, "Hang on." He noticed that her arms were red almost to the elbows (the average adult human has approximately 10 pints or 1.3 gallons of blood, what volume lost would result in Stage 3 shock?). She put a hand under his shoulder and pulled. Pain shot through his neck, his shoulder, his side, but at least breathing wasn't so impossible…

The gasp he let out was part due to pain, part due to bewilderment. Behind her lay the bloodied naked corpse of an elderly man, multiple bullet holes evident in the torso, and one between his eyes.

"Okay, okay," Ronnie sounded like she'd made some sort of decision. "We have to move you." Her face appeared directly in front of his. "I'm going to have to get you to the truck. It's going to hurt. You have to try to hang on to that dressing. Try to stay awake." He nodded, then grunted as she knelt, and hauled him into a fireman's carry, heading up the slope at a run.

He didn't remember much of the high speed trip back towards Great Falls, just the roar of an engine running hard and a cold, insistent, whuffing nose nudging him when the dark threatened to swallow him, the truck skidding to a stop, and her hauling him bodily from the back seat, telling Joni to stay when the dog tried to follow them through the doors. She was yelling for help, then there were people, and bright lights, and it REALLY REALLY FUCKING HURT and the last thing he saw was her standing covered in his blood and he wasn't sure if it was guilt or something else he felt about being the reason she was wearing an expression redolent of despair, worry, and terrible sadness.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean stuck his head into the bag and inhaled deeply. "Ah," he sighed happily, "I love the smell of money. You know what that is? That's the smell of a rebuild. And steak dinners. And really, really good booze."

Sam couldn't help but smile. The worry and tension that had been plaguing Dean for weeks had finally lifted. A quick count had established that Croydon had paid what he'd offered, and in real bills. There was enough for the Impala's extensive refitting, with change. Dean had been further sated by a steak dinner with all the trimmings and two very large slices of pie (with cream and ice-cream). Not even the bruising and mild concussion Sam was pretty sure he'd suffered could bring him down.

"Not too much booze, bro," he cautioned his older brother, "I don't want to have to work out in the middle of the night whether your hallucinations and puking are werewolf-induced, or self-induced."

"Ah, Sammy, my very own personal portable buzzkill." Dean sprawled contentedly on his bed, and burped extravagantly. "You know," he said thoughtfully, regarding the bag holding their hard-earned cash, "I have the strangest urge to tip it all out on the bed, and roll around in it. Naked."

"Oh, that gets filed under T.M.I." Sam told him, wincing at the lacerations the werewolf had dealt him. ""Never picked you as the Uncle Scrooge McDuck type."

"I was thinking more Demi Moore 'Indecent Proposal' myself," sighed Dean. He looked up, smiling. "In fact," he said, "That cute waitress with the really hot ass gave me her number. She looked a bit like Demi Moore. Maybe I could invite her back here, and we can open the bag, and…"

Sam's eyes went wide in horror. "Tell me that's a joke."

Dean looked hurt. "It's not a joke, Sam, it's a fantasy," he said plaintively. "How often am I ever going to get the chance to actually live out one of my fantasies? Some of them aren't even possible within the Earth's gravitational field. Not without angelic assistance, anyway, and I am not asking Cas for help with that, because if the guy can't even cope with a brothel, he sure as hell couldn't cope with me asking him to…"

"I am _choosing_ to believe that you are joking," huffed Sam with a hearty Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often).

"I don't make fun of your fantasies," muttered Dean sulkily. "At least, I wouldn't if you had any. I'd be only too happy to help you try to live them. I'd help you break into the Library of Congress, and I'd stand guard while you and your young lady acquaintance did it on the Head Librarian's desk…"

"Dean…"

"I'd help you sneak into the Smithsonian after hours, so you could do it up against the leg of the T. rex skeleton…"

"Dean…"

"I'd haul the climbing gear to the Lincoln Memorial for you, so you could do it in Abe's lap…"

"DEAN!" yelped Sam. "You are not having sex on our money!"

"Please?" Dean turned his most wistful expression on his little brother.

"No! That's… it's gross, dude! People have to touch it afterwards!"

Dean looked crestfallen, "What if it's just me rolling around by myself," he began hopefully, "You can go out for a while, or get another room, we can afford it…"

"NO!" snapped Sam. Dean pouted, and collapsed back onto his bed.

"Fine. When you do finally find a willing woman, don't come running to me for help to steal a ferry so you can go do it in the Statue of Liberty's crown after hours," he grumped.

Dean's annoying cheerfulness soon returned, and persisted as they spent a couple of days sampling the offerings of small breweries. Bobby was expecting them for a long stay whilst Dean worked on fitting out the Impala with a host of new parts. Dean spent a lot of time on the phone to Bobby, to some of Bobby's associates and parts dealers, organising, co-ordinating and ordering. Sam was convinced that if he smiled any wider, the top of his head was going to fall off.

If he was honest, he enjoyed the down time at Bobby's. Dean was as happy as a clam, especially once the parts started to arrive. He spent his days performing arcane and perplexing rites unto The Machine God, while Jimi lolled with his mother Rumsfeld and sister Janis, watching proceedings with a faint air of indulgent bewilderment. _Humans, eh?_ their expressions seemed to say, _The strangest things keep them occupied._

Bobby always had half a dozen projects, enquiries, translations or interpretations on the go, and Sam enjoyed helping out with those. He was also doing some research of his own, keeping a weather eye out for their next job. Which is how he came across the report of the near-fatal dog attack in the Great Falls area of Montana. He did a bit of checking, and didn't like what he came up with.

He told Dean the night after he'd helped his big brother install the new engine, sweating and grunting and bickering as they double-teamed the block and tackle to drop it into the chassis. Dean had purchased three bottles of booze. One was a bottle of champagne, which he'd broken over the crate before opening it ("I christen this engine Baby's New Motor. May the Machine God bless her, and all who travel in her, provided it's not some douche who's tried to steal my car, then may the Machine God run into something solid and impale the thieving dick on the steering column where he may die slowly and painfully, amen."). One was a bottle of 30-year-old Highland Park scotch, which he had given to Bobby, whom they had last seen cackling and stroking the bottle lovingly. ("If he calls it 'My Precious'," warned Sam, "I'm calling a psych evaluation team.") The last was another bottle of top-shelf bourbon, which he and Sam were currently sharing.

"I think that something might have gone wrong with our last job," Sam told him.

Dean snorted. "Crap. It went off pretty much without a hitch, all things considered. Werewolf brought down unmarked, minor injuries only, shitload of money given to us for what we do anyway. How could that possibly be anything but a win?"

Sam indicated the laptop. "I was just looking for our next job, and I found this. Apparent feral dog attack, out of Great Falls, last night of the full moon – the night we gave Croydon his werewolf." He opened a window. "A local man was brought into Emergency with extensive trauma, including apparent bite wounds from a large animal. I had a poke through some local records – the timing suggests he was attacked a couple of hours after we handed the wolf over to Croydon. It happened in one of the other likely haunts he'd plotted for it, but a search for the dog didn't find anything, just a lot of blood that the, er, attackee lost there. The next day, an elderly man was reported missing from a local nursing home. He's proven to be a bit of an escape artist, and his dementia has recently taken a turn for the worse. Could be our elderly werewolf. It would explain why he'd become less careful, and was behaving in predictable ways. He still hasn't been found. Authorities hold grave fears for his safety."

"Could be a coincidence," suggested Dean.

"Could be, yeah," agreed Sam. "The police report says the guy claims to have emptied a whole clip into it, and it didn't even blink."

Dean looked up. "He survived?"

"Yeah, apparently so. Here's the thing, though, the cops also found upwards of two dozen casings there. Guy says he only had one clip. So, where did the others come from?"

"A second shooter," mused Dean.

"Looks like it. So, lots of blood, no body, extensive search turns up no large feral dog, dead, dying or otherwise. Plus, whoever brought the guy into Emergency didn't stick around."

"So, what are you thinking?"

"I'm wondering if something went wrong," answered Sam, "Maybe the old wolf got away from Croydon and his sidekick, did a runner, out of habit headed for another favourite place. Someone was waiting there – the second shooter. I'm guessing another Hunter. Somehow, this guy interrupts, and gets attacked before the Hunter can gank the wolf. Ordinary rounds have no effect, guy gets mauled, Hunter finishes it off with silver ammo, takes guy back to hospital, doesn't want to stick around to answer awkward questions, high-tails it back to ground zero, deals with the werewolf's carcass, skips town a.s.a.p."

"Possibly leaving a new werewolf to fill the gap," Dean let his head fall back. "Why do you and that brain of yours have to kill the happy, Sam?" he asked despairingly.

"I think we should go back and check it out next full moon," Sam told him.

"If it was a Hunter, he'll already be planning to go back and check for himself," Dean pointed out.

"Why don't you give Creepy Croydon a call and ask?" suggested Sam. "If he can confirm that it all went to plan, then you can put it down to my over-active imagination."

"I might do that," remarked Dean. He looked thoughtful. "He might have another paying job for us, if he wants to go back and try again with a new werewolf. It would have to be a better specimen than the last one. Did it say how old the guy was?"

"Fuck, when did you become so mercenary? The guy is a creep, Dean."

"The guy pays good money. I'll call him tomorrow. While you go and get a haircut."

"What?" Sam rounded on his brother. "I did go and get a haircut!"

"When?" asked Dean suspiciously.

"Yesterday!"

"Oh, yeah?" Dean made a show of inspecting his brother's head. "Which one?"

"Jerk," muttered Sam.

* * *

><p>If you like, you may imagine Sam and Dean shirtless while they haul the engine out of the crate with a block and tackle. Shirtless, and sweating, muscles bunching and moving under their skin as they heave at the chains, panting heavily, biceps bulging as they bump each other and bicker, Sam flicking his hair out of his eyes, rollng his neck and stretching his lats out, while Dean upends a bottle of water over his head, the rivulets cascading down his chest and stomach to soak into the sagging waistband of his sweat-stained jeans...<p>

Please leave reviews. I'll just go get the mop.


	6. Irrelevant PostChapter 4 Interlude

**POST-CHAPTER 4 INSERT THAT IS TOTALLY UNRELATED AND IRRELEVANT TO THE STORY, WRITTEN FOR THE DENIZENS AS A SHAMELESS PANDER TO THEIR TASTE FOR SWEATY WINCHESTERS IN A STATE OF PARTIAL UNDRESS.**

**If you're not really interested in That Sort Of Thing, just skip this bit - which I am going to blame on lack of sleep - and go to the next chapter which will be srs. Srsly. Could even be some angst.**

* * *

><p>Goodness me. Goodness gracious me. The Denizens et al. are a depraved bunch...<p>

So, as a hopeless and pathetic review addict, at least I see what I have to do to get my hit. I have to give the audience what they want. It's the law of supply and demand. I have to provide what the readers want. Shenanigans a la Winchester.

So, for your depraved pleasure, I provide the following scenelet in the theatre of the mind...

* * *

><p><strong>SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: DELETED SCENE FROM AUTHOR'S RAMBLING AT END OF CHAPTER 4<strong>

**Bobby: **God's tits, look at you two, ya idjits! You're filthy! What the hell have you been doin'?

**Dean (looking sheepish):** Um, swapping out the Impala's engine.

**Sam (looking sheepish)****:** I helped.

**Dean: **You know, heaving and bulging and grunting.

**Sam:** And flexing and straining and sweating.

**Dean:** And getting grease on ourselves.

**Sam:** Not on each other, obviously.

**Dean:** There may have been some panting involved.

**Sam:** And some standing around looking sweatily buff.

**Bobby (frowning): **You are both all nasty and dirty and oily and slippery.

**Sam and Dean (bottom lips trembling):** Sorry, Bobby.

**Bobby: **I am not lettin' you in the house like that.

**Sam:** We could hose each other off before we come in? Get the hose, and get all wet and dripping and glistening. I could flick my hair back again.

**Dean:** In a totally brotherly way, with absolutely no homoerotic undertones at all, even if there is stiff nipple involvement. 'Cause that water's cold.

**Bobby:** Nope, you are not coming inside.

**Sam and Dean:** *big sad eyes shine with unshed tears*

*Bobby goes online looking for Winchester Cleaning Services. Ad pops up. Cheerful jingle plays*

_If your Winchesters are filthy, if they're caked with grime and sweat,  
><em>_You do not have to worry, no, you do not have to fret,  
><em>_Call DDD&SSS and we'll do all the work,  
><em>_We're mobile and we're local and we'll clean your bitch and jerk._

*Bobby makes a call*

_WHOOSH _*Large van pulls up in the yard*

**Aeicha: **Hello, we are Denizens' Dean Degreasing and Sam Sanitising Services, how may we help you today?

**Bobby: ***waves hand at greasy oily sweaty slippery Winchesters* Can you make them presentable for human company again?

**Leahelisabeth****:** Hmmmm, they do look quite dirty. The tall one's hair is pretty gunky. *prods disapprovingly at a bicep, inspects fingertip* Definitely in need of particular attention.

**PaulatheCat ***twines around Dean's legs* Meow, this one is particularly grimy.

**Bartlebead (consulting clipboard) ***scratches head with pencil* I can do you a two-for-one discount on a Primp and Pimp Package, that's a degrease, double-cleanse, loofah exfoliation, bubble tub and moisturise with oil-free organic preparation.

**Ciya: **We can groom that one's hair, too. It's my specialty. Would you like it braided?

**PaulatheCat:** *purrs* Don't forget, it's Thighday Friday, you get a free massage thrown in, where I walk up and down on their legs, with no claws. Well, unless they like that sort of thing…

**Paralesky****:** Plus, you get your choice of matching deodorant/cologne on them afterwards, 'Stud', 'Dark Druid' or 'Sugar Candy'.

**Bobby (frowning suspiciously):** How much is this all going to cost?

**WhiskySkye****:** As a special introductory offer for new customers in the area, we're working free all this week to try to attract custom. So, nothing. *smiles winningly*

**Bobby: **That's great! Can you have 'em done by dinner time?

**Katiki**** (grinning):** We can have them until then?

**Ciy****a:** Shhhhh! Certainly *flexes fingers* I'll throw in a scalp massage and coconut hair treatment, he'll smell like a big daiquiri by the time we're done.

**Bartlebead:** They'll be clean and buff and beautiful, and smell a lot better.

**Paralesky:** And don't forget, if you are in any way unsatisfied with the results, there's our 'Get It Right' guarantee.

**Katiki:** Which means we'll do it aaaaaall over again. And again. Until you are completely satisfied.

**Paralesky:** Or they are catatonic.

**Bobby: **Wonderful! Have at 'em, ladies.

**Leahelisabeth****:** Right, so who's first for the loofah? *Brandishes large loofah* Sam?

**Ciya:** Let me give you a hand with that, there's so much of him.

**Bartlebead:** *waves scrubbing brush on a stick* Come along Dean, it's tubby wubby time.

**Dean and Sam (clutching each other in terror):** AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGHHH!

**PaulatheCat: **Now now, you're both big boys, there's no reason to be shy.

*Denizens bundle Winchesters into van. Sloshing, scrubbing, hosing and screaming are heard. Two hours later, shell-shocked Sam and Dean are deposited, sparkling clean and scrubbed rosy pink and smelling lovely, on Bobby's porch, wearing towels, and sporting cute little bandanas around their necks. They sleep in the same bed that night, clutching each other, and wake up whimpering every hour on the hour.*

* * *

><p>Don't ask me why the bandana thing happens - every time my dog has a bath, she gets a bandana around her neck...<p>

Look, that's as graphic as I can get, because frankly, I've read a few M-rated things that have really startled me quite badly. I have enough trouble dealing with Dean's exploits as it is. I'm P.R.E.W.D. rather than L.E.W.D.


	7. Chapter 5

Right, so, I think we've pretty much established that I am totally incapable of writing anything free of crack. And I was doing so well there, for a few chapters, keeping it to a bit of silliness from Dean, and bitchiness from Sam... never mind. On with the srs bits.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

Cock-up. Total cock-up. Clusterfuck. Epic, epic, epic fail.

Ronnie returned to her cruddy room in a run-down motel just long enough to clean the blood off herself and the dog - Joni protested as she was dragged into the shower, but the urgency of her Alpha's actions silenced her. She got the worst of it off the truck – the dog's blanket would need a serious wash in the immediate future – and got the hell out of Dodge, hoping no cops pulled her over and if they did, they wouldn't notice the lingering acrid iron-smell of blood, because fuck, who wouldn't, it was making her head spin…

Her fault. Her fault. This was her fault. He saw the truck, that had to be it, he saw the truck and came looking. Of course he came looking – he was a decent guy, a truck sticking out of the shrubbery after dark on an isolated stretch of road, of course a decent guy would come looking, that's what decent people did, right? That didn't mean he'd recognized it as her truck in particular. It would never have happened if she'd been more careful with stashing the truck. Or at least if she hadn't frozen like a damned amateur getting a look at her first supernatural critter. Her father would've disowned her. Her grandmother would've shot her, in utter disgust.

Seriously, what the fuck had happened? She'd seen him heading for her, concern all over his face, running _towards _the fucking thing, with a bloody gun, for Christ's sake. He was coming to save her! And she's been so shocked, so surprised, so, so, so flabbergasted, she'd stood there and gawped while it broke off its charge and headed for him instead. And he'd just stood there, pumping shot after ineffective shot into it, why hadn't he turned around and just run?

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, brainless bitch! Feeling please with yourself, are you? You should've taken up his offer of a drink, then you could've bitten him yourself, saved you both a trip to hospital, the end result would've been the same… _

She let out an inarticulate snarl of anger, frustration, and sadness.

Joni jumped into shotgun from the back seat, whining and whuffing, clearly upset by her Alpha's agitation. Ronnie made herself take a deep breath and calm down.

"I'm sorry," she told the dog, rubbing the animal's ears, "I'm projecting, aren't I? This is not your fault. You were magnificent. Rushing in to save the day. Well, almost. He's screwed, Joni." There, she said it out loud. "He's screwed. And it's not fair."

It never was. It was as if there was some sort of universal rule that the supernatural would take special pains to screw with the lives of ordinary, unassuming, decent people. He was just an ordinary guy, with an endearing sad-puppy expression, who'd tried to be friendly, even tried to buy her a drink….

_Don't go getting ideas, sister,_ the Hunter inside snorted with amusement, _Have you looked at yourself recently? I'm here to tell you that you're not getting any prettier as you get older. What is this, some sort of mid-life crisis? Grow up. Get a grip._

She drove south-east until she hit Oregon, and found another crappy place to hole up. It was time to stop stuffing around. She'd let the matter die down a bit, then she'd head back, and see what the situation was. He'd been pretty badly torn up – chances were, he would be dead by now.

For some reason, she found herself hoping that he wasn't.

He'd recognised her truck once, the thought nagged, he must've done so again. Why the hell had he come looking for her?

_He came looking when he thought you were in trouble. _The very idea disturbed her in a way she couldn't articulate to herself.

He was probably dead. End of problem. The universe picks up after your mistake.

If he wasn't, then, well, this was her mess. If it needed cleaning up, she was the one to do it. She could take care of it before the next full moon. Clean, and quick, he'd never know what hit him. She owed him that, at least.

Joni liked him. Somehow, that just made it even worse.

Ronnie went back out to her truck and fetched two bottles of the dark rum she kept stashed in the back. It was not available in the US, so she rationed it, but she detoured to Alberta when she could to keep a supply of it. She turned a bottle over in her hands. Bundaberg. A little piece of home.

Right now, she'd cheerfully go back there, and let her father finish what he'd tried to do.

She shook her head. _Enough._ She had a plan: wait a week, head back, and clean up her mess, if necessary, whatever that might entail.

But before then, she intended to get very, very drunk.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Dean!" Alex Croydon's voice sounded cheerful, "What can I do for you? Looking for another job?"

"Not exactly," Dean told the older man, "I'm calling to check on the last job we did for you. Mostly to humour my little brother."

"You did a fine job, you and your dog," Croydon said, "Like I said, I'd employ you again."

"That's not exactly what I meant," Dean clarified, "Did everything go according to plan after we left?"

"Ah." Croydon's voice turned seriously. "Since you ask, no, Dean. I'm afraid there was a rather unfortunate occurrence." He sighed. "The gentleman with whom I was working was, shall we say, less thorough that he should have been in securing the beast. It escaped after we'd transported it."

"Sam thinks another Hunter might've gone after it," Dean went on, "Was that you?"

"Me?" Croydon sounded amused. "No, no, having seen it, it wasn't worth another attempt. It wasn't a very impressive specimen, you could see that. It was quite old, pretty scrawny. I wasn't planning on going back."

"Well, it attacked some other guy a couple of hours later," Dean informed him. "It was all over the local news site. Along a report of a missing nursing home resident, who was probably the wolf we handed over."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Croydon replied. There was a pause. "Was the attack fatal?"

"No, not immediately, anyway," Dean answered, "Sam thinks that another Hunter showed up, ganked the werewolf, and took him to Emergency."

"Did the article mention who the victim was?"

"Uh, I dunno, hang on," Dean pulled the laptop towards himself, and backtracked through the browsing history. "Er, here it is. Nope, just 'a local man in his 40s... mechanic... ex Armed Forces...'. Hang on... oh, there's an update. He made it. Expected to be released from hospital any day now."

"Did he get bitten?" Croydon persisted.

"Doesn't say. I guess he'll find out next full moon. You planning on going back to check it out?"

"I might look into it," mused Croydon, "See if I can find out a bit more about our local ex-serviceman mechanic in his 40s. Would you be willing to take another job?"

"What?" Dean was surprised. "Er, I actually meant 'check it out' as in, make sure there isn't a new werewolf taking up where the old one left off..."

"Well, he sounds like he could be a more promising specimen than the last one," reasoned Croydon, "Although if he hasn't had a chance to establish a pattern of attacks, he could be trickier to track down and grab, especially if he's a bit more... feisty. Your fee would of course reflect that."

Dean didn't believe what he was hearing. "You'd... pay us again, for the same job?"

"Of course, Dean, of course," Croydon reassured him, "You held up your end of the bargain, I don't expect you to refund payment just because it went south at my end of the deal. I'll do some checking, and get back to you, would that be all right? Would you be interested?"

"Er, yeah, sure," Dean stuttered. "I mean, I'll have to check with Sam, but we should have the car finished and run in by then, so I guess we'd be available..."

"Excellent!" Croydon sounded pleased. "I'll be in touch."

"Yeah, okay, thanks Alex," Dean shut his phone, smiling. It never rains but it pours. Where the hell were the paying jobs when they'd been sleeping in the car and living on uncooked 2-minute noodles and cold packets of pre-cooked rice?

He was singing happily off-key while replacing his Baby's drive shaft when Sam found him and waggled a beer at him.

"Having fun?" his brother enquired wryly.

Dean popped out from under the car, and brandished a part at him. "Extreme duty centre support carrier," he announced cheerfully. "I think the old one might've been cracked. It's a good thing my Baby knows how to look after us – any other car, it could've dropped the drive shaft, and catapulted us off a bridge, or something..."

"That's not possible," Sam humphed, "You watch enough Mythbusters, don't you remember that episode?"

"Not really – I only really pay attention when the blow stuff up," grinned Dean, "Or Kari's walking around with a firearm. That's so hot. I'd do her on the workshop floor. Even better, she could do me on the workshop floor. Or in Earl the Cadillac. I'm sure my Baby would understand."

"I'm sure she'd appreciate missing out on that particular activity," agreed Sam sourly. "Her suspension will thank you, no doubt."

"Are you kidding? I gotta break in the new ones. Composite hydropneumatic shocks, Sammy. I can't wait to try 'em out. I just felt sorry for Earl, I'd like to think that his back seat saw some action before they dropped him from that crane..."

"Well, when we're ready to roll, I think we should head back to Great Falls, and check that the place doesn't still have a werewolf-in-residence," Sam announced. "The old guy from the nursing home hasn't turned up, but I think we should go back and check, to make sure."

"Yeah, I called Alex Croydon," Dean said, "You were right. The old werewolf got away before they could do their doggy dentistry on it. The guy who was attacked survived, though, he'll be out of hospital in a couple of days. We might have another job, bringing him in instead."

Sam stared at him. "What? When the hell did you decide this?"

"This morning, when I talked to Croydon. I asked about the wolf, he confirmed it escaped, but he didn't go after it because it was too scrawny. He asked about the guy, I told him he'd survived, and he said he'll do some checking and get back to us." He looked up at Sam's incredulous face. "He doesn't want his money back, if that's what you're worried about," Dean reassured his brother, "In fact, he'll pay us more for this one, because it'll probably be a tougher job – younger, stronger werewolf, no established habits to help us track it."

"And you were planning on telling me this, when?" demanded Sam.

"I'm telling you now," replied Dean dismissively, "I'll have our girl back on the road by then, we can finish the run-in on the way..."

"Great. And were you, by any chance, thinking of asking me whether I wanted in on this?" asked Sam angrily.

"Of course you want in on this," Dean replied, "Another paying job! Why wouldn't you want in on this?"

"Because it's... it's creepy, and there's something more going on here, something nasty, and it's... what's gotten into you?" Sam wanted to know. "This guy Croydon is seriously creepy, Dean. He sets my teeth on edge. Pulling werewolf teeth isn't creepy enough? There's something wrong going on with him."

"He's honest enough," Dean pointed out, "We did the job, he paid us what he promised, and he's offered to pay us again, if there's a new wolf worth nabbing."

"Will you listen to yourself?" Sam rounded on him. "Worth nabbing? Dean, the guy had a werewolf escape from him, and he didn't go after it! Yeah, it may have been old, and not worth much money to him, but he didn't chase it down. It attacked somebody else. And now you're handing that guy's ass to Croydon... do you get a spotter's fee as well?"

"If he's turned, the guy's ass is dead, anyway," Dean shot back, "If we don't get him, some other Hunter will. And he may kill several times before that happens, or turn somebody else."

"Yeah, well, let's hope he only bites those who will make worthwhile specimens," snapped Sam. He sighed. "Jimi doesn't like him," he added. "If nothing else, that has to carry some weight with you. Jimi is a flawless judge of character, you always say."

"I'm not asking you to like him," Dean answered, "And I don't like him, and yeah, the whole teeth thing is a bit, well, squicky, but it's money, Sam, money we can use." He drained his beer. "Look, this might not even come to anything. We'll get back on the road, head to Great Falls, and see what's happening. There might not even be a new wolf, in which case, end of argument. Croydon might not call back."

"Okay," sighed Sam, "But I really don't like this catch the fuglies for profit thing."

"We won't make a habit of it," Dean assured him. "Look on the bright side, just this once, we'll be able to stay in a nicer place. One with real cotton sheets would be nice. And decent water pressure. Maybe even one where we don't stick to the carpet. And the hot water doesn't run out. And you get a chocolate on your pillow. And free porn. You can spend the night getting room service and watching porn, bro, it'll be great. Oh, yeah, we'd better get one with a spa bath."

"Dean, I'm not going to hide under the bed while you bring home your latest conquest for a couple of rounds of Happy Pink Submarine in the spa bath..."

"No, no, no, Sammy, I won't be there; the spa bath is for you. You need to unwind, relax, chill out. Lovely rose-scented bubble bath. Then you can put on a robe, and do your toenails, and have yourself a lovely girl's night in, and that PMS you're obviously suffering from will just melt away."

"What? Where the hell will you be?"

"Christening my Baby's new shock absorbers, duh..."

"Of course. How silly of me."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't you dare eat the chocolate on my pillow while I'm not there, bitch."

"Jerk."

* * *

><p>It's now after midnight, and past my bed-time,and the brain is shutting down, so I'm afraid you'll have to write your own inappropriately salacious irrelevent end-of-chapter comments. Here are some prompt words for you: gasp, chocolate, moan, nip, bandana, shampoo, daffodil, playfully, idjit, shy, hydropneumatic, wheelbarrow. Enjoy.<p> 


	8. Chapter 6

Okay, some more of this interaction stuff. Ladeez and gennlemen, I shall now attempt an entire chapter... without any crack! It's harder than it looks. Aeicha, I too am not terribly au fait with the whole romance thing, but we'll see how we go... let's start with a cruise up Denial...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

Ronnie sat on the hood of her truck, watching Joni chase after some poor hapless rodent that had strayed into her field of attention. She smiled to see her companion playing so happily, yapping and bounding and completely absorbed in her game. Yes, she thought, people really could learn a lot from the carefree soul of a dog, just ignore the bit that wants to pee on the carpet... When she'd surfaced after spending two days wallowing in rum, self-pity, and at one point her own puke, she finally realised, with a sudden blinding stab of clarity, what the problem was.

Obviously, she needed a break.

When the insight hit her, it was such a relief, she almost laughed. She needed some down time. Her little pity party meltdown proved that. Ordinary people took annual leave to relax, recover, re-energise; it stood to reason that sometimes, Hunters needed that too. It could be a high-stress occupation – it took a toll on mind as well as body. It had to.

The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. She realised that this was the first time she'd actually met a werewolf before ganking him. It. Old North wolves were rarer than humanoid ones, and when she did encounter them, they were in wolf form and trying to kill somebody (usually her). She never got to see the human they had been until it was time to dispose of the carcass. There certainly wasn't any amusing conversation that made her smile without even thinking about it, or sad puppy face, or offers to buy beer...

Watching somebody else get bitten had probably triggered some traumatic memory of when she was attacked too, it stood to reason. Just because she dealt with this sort of thing routinely, didn't mean it didn't affect her did it? After all, she was only human. Most of the time. It must've triggered all sorts of horrible recollections. A trauma counsellor would probably throw both hands in the air in horror, and say that the real question was, why didn't she have this sort of episode more often? Dr Phil would demand to know: "What were yoooooou thinking?"

And it was always upsetting when a civilian got in the way. Not even the most hardened Hunter ever became completely inured to that. But it happened; you did your best, but sometimes, people got caught in the cross-fire, or the fugly got lucky, or Fate just decided to be a total bitch, or the Hunter was just too slow, too late. People got hurt. People died. People who didn't deserve it. It happened. It was sad, it was unfair, and mostly she stopped it, but sometimes it just all went south and it was nobody's fault... _it was the way of things_, Joni would tell her, and she smiled again at the thought. She should learn from her dog. She would give herself a break.

Once she decided to do that, it was as if Fate had, in fact, decreed that she have some time off. Her nose took her to an alley, where she found a dealer who was so easy to roll it was funny – his strong man actually wet himself when her face changed and she broke his hand taking his gun, so she left him fifty dollars off the fat, greasy wad of notes to buy himself some clean trousers.

Ronnie liked Oregon. It had space. She shifted to a more upmarket motel. She laundered everything she owned, and bought some new clothes. She ate chocolate. She took Joni to the coast, and laughed as the dog chased seagulls, joined her for some paddling. She ate ice-cream. In Portland, she found a tattooist whose work she liked, and had Joni's portrait added to Mako and Arko. She spent a tranquil hour eating lunch one afternoon, watching Mt Hood to see if it would erupt (it didn't). She even went and had her hair cut, which she rarely bothered to do (she usually just cut a handful off when it became too difficult to manage, a revelation which drew a theatrical shriek of horror from the effeminate man inspecting her neglected locks), but it was all about having a break, and being nice to herself, and wasn't that the sort of thing women were supposed to do when they came over all hormonal? If the rinse the hairdresser talked her into just happened to lighten her hair a bit and bring out highlights she hadn't seen since she was a kid, well, that was just a bonus. Who didn't like a little self-esteem boost occasionally? She played pool, and found herself genuinely laughing when a bad sport came after her to try to retrieve the money he'd lost to her; she was feeling so relaxed, she only cut off his hair and not his hand, and barely let her fangs show when she smiled at him. _I have to do this more often_, she told herself.

It was longer than the week she'd planned on, but she was back on an even keel, with her head in the game. It was time to go clean up her mess. Then while she was that far north, she could head across the border and replenish her rum stash.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

He flipped listlessly through the channels on the tiny hospital TV. Andrew was twitchy. Twitchy and bored. Bored and twitchy. The surgeon and the physician had declared themselves amazed at how quickly he'd recovered – for a while, they had been amazed that he'd recovered at all – and they seemed almost reluctant to discharge him. He wanted out. The food was, well, it was hospital food, and the grandpa pyjamas didn't do anything to make him feel better.

Also, being stuck with not much to do meant having time to think, and he was finding that... unsettling.

The police had been and gone, asking him about the animal that had attacked him and the person who had assisted him. He told them as much as he could, which wasn't much, because his memory of the whole thing was pretty damned hazy, and the bits he thought he remembered were pretty damned fucked up, presumably due to blood loss messing with his mind, and couldn't possibly be real...

They'd asked about Ronnie, too, and he'd told them what he knew, but she seemed to have disappeared. Which was a shame, because the local press wanted to talk to the hero who'd saved him, and damn it_, he_ wanted to talk to the hero who'd saved him. It would've been nice at least to say 'thank you'. And maybe offer to buy her that beer after all. I mean, it was a perfect excuse, right? You and your dog with the glowing eyes and the teeth like a sabre-tooth tiger saved my ass from a dog that was over six feet tall and charged on its hind legs and didn't even flinch with more than a dozen rounds in it then turned into an old man once it was dead and you threw me over your shoulder like I weighed nothing and drove me to Emergency, the least I can do is buy you a beer, and a doggy treat for your shark dog, incidentally your teeth looked kind of tigerish too that night, have you had veneers done?

It didn't feel like an hallucination. It felt like a real memory. But, it couldn't be...

He was brought out of his thoughts by a click-click-click sound in the hallway. No nurse would ever wear anything resembling heels; he recognised the sound of a dog's claws on a hard floor, and wondered what the hell a dog was doing inside a hospital.

It was them. Joni, wearing a guide dog working harness, was leading Ronnie, who was wearing dark glasses. The picture was so unexpected and incongruous, he felt his jaw drop.

"Er, hi," she said, lifting her glasses, and offering a tentative, low-wattage version of_ that_ smile. "Is it okay if we come in?"

He felt his face break into a goofy grin. "Ronnie!" he burst out, "Uh, sure! Come on in! Welcome to my cell." He indicated a chair.

"Ta." She sat, and Joni pulled away from her, jumping to put her paws on his bed, tail wagging as she butted at him for pats. "Sorry about that," Ronnie apologised, waving at the harness, "But she insisted on coming in to see you as well. It's the only way a dog can get into a lot of places."

The dog peered at him earnestly. Her face was so expressive, he could practically see what she was saying. "Hey, Joni," he scratched her ears, "I'm fine, thanks to you and your Mom." He looked back to Ronnie. "I didn't get to say thank you before you left," he told her, "So, uh, thank you. For killing that... dog."

She was watching his expression carefully. "I'm sorry for taking off like that," she said quietly. "It's hospitals. I hate hospitals. They freak me out."

"You had a bad experience?" he asked, nodding at her scarred face.

The faded gouge puckered as she grinned wryly. "Yeah, I guess you could put it that way," she agreed.

"So, are you back in town? For a while?" he asked in what he hoped was a politely casual tone, and not at all desperate and stalkerish.

"Yeah. I might stay around for a bit," she nodded slowly.

"And, er, what brings you back?" he went on, suddenly wishing he hadn't.

She looked at him hard, as if trying to decide what to say. "I wanted to see how you were," she replied finally. "And Joni did, too. We're both glad you made it." She studied the floor, her face going slightly pink.

"Yeah. Me too," he agreed, "At least you have some more info for your mad dog attack stories. I could give you an exclusive interview."

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You know, man survives attack by crazed sewer monster dog," he elaborated, "We can say it looked like Osama bin Laden, if that would help. I'll buy you a beer, and you can interview me." He looked at her brightly. She looked hesitant. "Oh, come on," he felt the kicked dog expression creep onto his face, "The least I can do is buy you a beer. Look at Joni, she knows how to accept a thank you." Hearing her name, the dog whuffed happily, and redoubled her efforts to solicit attention. "Please?" Kicked-dog, kicked-dog. "I'm dying in here. They say they'll discharge me in a day or so. I'd kill to talk to a woman who doesn't want to poke something into me or ask embarrassing questions about my use of the bathroom..." Kicked-dog, kicked-dog, kicked-dog.

She gave him the smile.

"Okay," she said, "Okay. Yeah, you owe me a beer. For bleeding all over my truck. And Joni's blanket."

Andrew turned a serious expression towards the dog. "Joni, I am really sorry for bleeding on your blanket," he intoned sincerely. Joni responded by wagging her tail, and reaching up to kiss his nose.

"Ew!" he jumped backwards, and winced. "Ow."

"Still sore?" Ronnie asked.

"Yeah, a bit," he conceded. "But I'm alive to bitch about it. The docs say I'm healing up really fast." Her expression became unreadable. "I'm going to have some really funky scars, though. Still, no scars, no proof, right?"

She found that funny. "Well, they say chicks dig scars," she observed.

"I think some guys might dig scars too, you know," he answered without thinking. _Oh, for fuck's sake,_ scowled the little voice in his head, _open mouth, insert foot_... "Er, he stumbled, "That didn't come out right..."

She did the eyebrow thing again, but she was smiling. "How very diggable you're going to be."

His face coloured slightly. "Um, no, I just... oh, fuck..." she was laughing. He sighed. "Look, I'll just shut up now," he sighed. "I'll be out in a day or so. If you leave me your number, I'll call you, and buy you a beer. And a milk bone for Joni."

She regarded him thoughtfully, then nodded, taking the proffered phone. "I can pick you up if you like," she offered, "Give you a lift home."

"Er, that'd be great!' he said, "Um, thanks. For... thanks."

She grinned at him. "I'll see you in a day or two, then," she said. "And Joni prefers fried chicken wings."

He looked confused. "I didn't think you were supposed to feed stuff like that to dogs," he mused.

"Oh, you're not," she replied, 'Her dietary habits are pretty disgusting, but if you think she's bad, you should meet her brother." Ronnie slid her glasses back down, and called Joni, picking up the harness handle. "I'll see you later," she told him, making to leave, "And you can tell me all about your diggable scars."

"I'll tell you about mine if you tell me about yours," he blurted.

She gave him another unreadable look as that little voice in his head laid down and cried.

"We'll see," she said distantly as she left.

Andrew stared at the doorway after she'd left_. I should have told her that her hair looks nice_, he thought regretfully_, chicks are supposed to dig that sort of thing, too._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Ronnie said, half to Joni and half to herself as she started the truck.

She had held out a faint hope that he had survived unchanged, but her nose had told her differently the moment she'd approached his room. It would be more apparent if he shapeshifted, but she'd... take care of him – it – before he had a chance to do that.

She sighed. This way, she would find out where he lived, gain his trust, and make it a quick and unexpected job of it. After her fuck-up basically doomed him, it was the least she could do. It was a real shame. He was genuinely a nice guy. With a bit of a talent for letting his mouth go into gear before his brain, but...

_Are you receptive?_

Joni's curious whuff startled Ronnie out of her thoughts.

_What? No!_ she gruffed back to the dog, _He is Prey. We will Hunt him._

Joni sniffed carefully at her Alpha. _Are you certain? He seeks your company. You would accept him?_

Ronnie gaped at her companion. _He is... I cannot. We must Hunt him._

Joni settled down onto the seat with a deep doggy sigh. She rolled large, sad eyes at Ronnie.

"Don't say another bloody word, you," Ronnie growled at her, pulling out of the lot.

* * *

><p>Winchesters again next chapter, I promise. They wil be bitching. There will be smirking. There will be bickering.<p> 


	9. Chapter 7

I think I can kind of see the end, a few chapters away. I think. If I stand on my toes and squint. Why do these stories get so out of hand? Why? WHY? CURSE THE BUNNIES!

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><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

"Ow! Bugger!" Ronnie cursed as she loaded the magazine. She had long practise at doing it without burning herself on silver rounds, but she was distracted, on edge. She stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out, making herself relax. She would have to be sharp for what she was proposing to do. It might go south very quickly, and if it did…

She was going to tell him. She was going to tell him that she was a Hunter, and that he was a werewolf, and tell him how to keep himself contained, how to stay safe, how to stay under the radar.

It was a reasonable thing to do, she argued with herself. She'd encountered a few wolves who kept themselves out of the way at That Time Of The Month – admittedly, they had families to help them with the Big Hairy Secret, but having seen the guy's house (with a basement just right for keeping a wolf confined) and talked to him, she thought it was worth a shot. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

_Since you ask, _that maddening little inner voice supplied,_ The worst that could happen is that he'll think you're some sort of raving lunatic, then he'll pull a weapon of his own, and he has at least two (and he knows how to use them, just watching him walk you can tell he knows how to take care of himself and he's not afraid to get his hands dirty and you HAVE watched) and he tries to shoot you, or he tries to tackle you hand-to-hand, and wouldn't that be fun because you know he's serious alpha male material, he's rank with it, don't think I haven't seen you looking and sniffing, and part of you is curious to see just what he looks like, or maybe he calls the police, or maybe all three, then you'll have to run for it and come back and try to gank him once he undergoes his first shapeshift tomorrow night and hope you can do it before he gets away and kills anyone, or gets to an area where there are witnesses around, then you have to drag his silver-riddled carcass away and bury it, and it'll have to be a damned big hole, because his human carcass is no slouch and I'm tipping he'll be up around the seven foot mark and pushing 300 pounds… any other questions?_

She finished the magazine, and loaded her gun. Joni sat watching her intently.

"Am I doing the right thing here, Joni?" she asked the animal plaintively. It was a rhetorical question. Almost. If this was a wrong call, somebody could end up dead.

He was a nice guy. She had decided on that. He was a nice, decent, polite guy. He deserved better than high-velocity silver therapy and an unmarked grave.

He'd bought her the beer he'd promised, and some chicken necks for Joni. ("My grandfather bred dogs, and I am not feeding her fried chicken wings. He'll come back and haunt me."). Then they'd met for lunch. Then, he'd invited her home to his small but comfy house. They'd talked, and she'd actually enjoyed it, even as she tap-danced carefully around his questions, bullshitting her way through with half-truths and outright untruths, even managing what she thought was a pretty convincing show of ignorance concerning the 'dog' that attacked him. She had a feeling that his internal bullshit detector was going off, but he didn't call her on it.

He had startled her mid conversation when, quite distinctly, she heard,

_I would Den with you._

It had taken a moment for her to realise that he didn't realise what he was 'saying'. His posture, his scent, his wordless chuckles and snorts, they carried a language he didn't yet realise he was speaking…

_I would Den with you. Strong, capable bitch.__ Affection._

She hoped she'd been able to stop her cheeks turning too pink.

She was going to do this on his home turf. It might help. Or it might not. At any rate, she had to stop mucking around, and woman up, and do this.

She got out of her truck, Joni sticking close to her, made her way to the porch and knocked on the door.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Chromed nipples," announced Dean.

Sam choked on a mouthful of chicken salad

Dean patted him on the back while he coughed. "I keep telling you, Sammy," he sighed, "That rabbit food is going to kill you. All those vitamins, all those trace elements, all that fibre, as Bobby would say, it can't be good for a body."

Sam gawped at his brother while he took a drink of his soda. "What?" he demanded. "You say something like that, and wonder why I choke? Jesus, bro," he scowled, "Look, you're an adult, so what you do to your own skin is your business, but the whole body modification thing is just a bit freaky if you ask me – seriously, what the hell? You nearly fainted getting your tattoo!"

"I did not!" countered Dean, "I was feeling a bit light-headed after a strenuous night with a young lady, then missing breakfast because she wanted to play another round of stuffin' the muffin instead..."

"Dean! Trying to eat here," growled Sam.

"Anyway, I'm talking about my Baby," Dean went on, "Things to buy her after this job. Grease nipples, or the ones on the brake bleed. I could get a radio that works properly all the time. Really fix the air con. Although now you mention it," he glanced down at his own chest, lips pursed thoughtfully. "You think a piercing?" he asked. "You think chicks would dig it? They might light to play with it, oh yeah… Just one, two would be totally gay. Hey, I could get a teeny tiny little silver Impala charm to hang off it, then if I inadvertently ended up banging a chick who was actually a fugly, I'd know when it started to leave a mark on her…"

"DEAN!" Sam snapped. He dropped his fork in disgust as his brother smiled his most sunny 'gotcha!' smile. "For some reason, I'm not hungry," he muttered. "I can't possibly think why."

Dean sighed theatrically. "How did my brother get so many prude genes?"

"I got yours as well," Sam humphed, "Because you clearly did not get any at all."

"Amen for that," Dean grinned, stuffing another fry into his mouth. "Maybe you should get one," he suggested, "It might help you get laid. I'll clean it for you if you like, if you're too squeamish even to look at it, because I'm an awesome big brother who's just looking out for your sex life…"

"Oh, you are gross," moaned Sam, with a glare of Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!).

"It's no problem, dude," Dean said dismissively, "I changed your diaper when you were little, cleaning your nipple piercing would be a walk in the park by comparison."

"The only thing that's going to get pierced around here is your eardrum," Sam threatened, picking up his fork again, "When I stab this fork into your ear, wiggle it around, and use it to pull your brains out and mail them to underprivileged Zombies in Africa."

"Yep, you definitely need to get laid," pronounced Dean, "But since the involvement of an actual woman is clearly not going to happen, I'll have to be satisfied with your laptop dancing. Do you have a fix on our prospective Old North wolf yet?"

"Yeah," Sam pulled the laptop towards himself. "Guy's name is Andrew Jaeger. Ex serviceman, now works as an auto mechanic. Lives out of town, was discharged from hospital a couple of days ago. 'Miraculous survival and recovery', according to the local news."

"Anything on who found him? The attack? What about the missing pensioner?" Dean asked.

Sam tapped at the keys. "The old guy who went missing is still gone, presumed dead by now. They've scaled back the search to a recovery operation. As to the attack, it's still 'large feral dog', and it was interrupted by 'an unidentified woman' who was not local, and apparently disappeared afterwards."

"Sounds like your theory holds water," Dean poked some fries into the mustard. "You got an address?"

"Right here," replied Sam. "We should go for a drive, cruise past, find a place to watch from."

"Ah, I love me a good old-fashioned stake-out," grinned Dean. "Provided I can sit in my Baby while we do it. My beautiful, purring, refitted, wonderful, sex-on-wheels Baby." He sighed happily, looking out the window of the diner to where the Impala sat in the lot, with Jimi snoozing on the back seat. A couple of kids got too close, then fell over their own feet in fright when the dog suddenly exploded into a slavering barking frenzy. "I never, ever get tired of that," Dean grinned cheerfully.

"Full moon's tomorrow night," Sam mentioned, "When are you meeting Croydon?"

"Tonight," Dean answered, "Want to make sure we have the darts ready to go. Its first shapeshift will probably be the best chance we get to take it down with the least hassle – it'll be confused, and not thinking straight, and probably still carrying some damage from the attack that turned it."

"Sounds like a plan," said Sam.

"You don't have to come," Dean reassured him, "I know you don't like him."

"Damned right I don't like him," Sam muttered, "And neither does Jimi."

"Well, you ladies can stay in, and soak your hormones away in the spa bath," Dean told him. "I, on the other hand, will take some hard-earned cash and find a bar, and undertake some financial responsibility, maybe play me some poker, hustle me some pool, drink me some beer…"

"Find you some tail," Sam rolled his eyes.

"…And christen me some suspension," finished Dean. "So don't wait up. Oh, and don't fall asleep in the bath, I am not hauling your ginormous ass out of there and dragging you to hospital with hypothermia and a case of third-degree prune-up."

"Jerk. And you are not allowed to say the word 'nipple' again."

"For how long?"

"For ever."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Ronnie!" Andrew felt a small flush of happiness at seeing her standing on the doorstep. "Come on in! I've just put coffee on. Hiya Joni." The dog gave him another enthusiastic tail-wagging greeting.

"Gday Andrew," she greeted him, but the smile didn't quite get to her eyes. She was worried about something. He told himself sternly that he would resist the urge to sniff at her. At their last meeting, he'd found himself constantly wanting to smell her. It was weird and creepy and stalkerish and creepy and weird. And creepy. And utterly irresistable. He kept finding himself wanting to bury his nose in her hair, and inhale…

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" he asked, when they'd settled in the living room with coffee and a plate of chocolate-coated cookies. "Incidentally, I am never going to forgive you for introducing me to these," he added, "I am going to turn into the Michelin Man. They're addictive."

"Wait until you try the Tim Tam Slam," she told him, "You bite the ends off and suck your coffee through it." She gave him that not-quite-right smile again.

"So, what's on your mind?" he asked, because something clearly was.

Her face turned serious. "Andrew," she began hesitantly, "What do you remember about the night you were… attacked?"

He was immediately alert. "Not a lot," he replied after a long moment. "I remember… something biting me, and scratching at me, and that it hurt like fuck. I lost a lot of blood, I was seeing things…"

"What do you think you saw?" she asked him levelly.

He returned her frank stare. "Altered state of consciousness and hallucination are well-documented symptoms of hypovolaemic shock," he said careful, "Due to the reduced flow of oxygenated blood to the brain. I was seeing things."

"What do you think you saw?" she repeated.

He gave her a long look. "Why are you asking?" he demanded.

"Because it's important," she shot back, "Andrew, think! What did you see?"

His eyes narrowed. "If this is for some piece you want to write for that moronic website…" he began.

"It's not!" she snapped. "Andrew, think about it. You know what you saw. You know what I'm talking about."

Andrew sat back, dangerously still. "What is this about?' he asked quietly.

Oh, fuck, she was screwing it up already. "It's about what attacked you," Ronnie tried to control her voice, "It wasn't a dog, was it? You saw it. I know you saw it, Andrew, I saw your face…"

"It was a giant wolf," he scowled, "I saw a giant wolf, walking on its hind legs. I put a full 9-mil clip into it and the damned thing didn't even blink."

Ronnie sat very still. "Andrew," she said in as reasonable a tone as she could manage, "I know what attacked you. You were bitten by a werewolf."

There was a horrible, moment of screeching silence…

Then he burst out laughing.

"Oh, fuck," he wheezed, wiping his eyes, "Ow! Oh, crap, okay, you got me good. Ah, I'm still sore. That's your fault. So, that's the angle you're going to take with your article? Don't ask me how you're supposed to work the anal probe into a werewolf story…" his laughter stuttered to a halt as his voice petered out. His face became hard, disbelieving. "My God," he said, "You're serious."

"Damned right I'm serious," she told him. "You've been bitten by a werewolf, and tomorrow night is the first night of the full moon."

He sat looking deceptively relaxed, looking at her with a mixture of concern, dismay, disappointment, and… sadness.

"You believe it," he said almost to himself, "You actually believe it."

"You know what you saw," she reiterated. "You saw it. Old North werewolf, lycanthrope, can walk upright or run on all fours. Incredibly robust. Viciously strong. How do you think you recovered so quickly?" She watched his face. "You've wondered about that, haven't you?" she pressed. "Noticed that you're just out of hospital after almost having your throat torn out, but you can… do things with less effort."

His face was carefully blank.

"And you saw what happened when it was dead," she went on relentlessly, desperately, "They revert to their human form when they're dead. You saw it! It turned back into an old man! You saw it! I know you did!"

"How did you kill it then, huh?" he demanded.

"With a load of these." She reached for her gun. Before she had it out, his own was in his hand, steady and pointing at her head. She sighed.

"Look, I'm going to do this really slowly," she told him, bringing her gun out, and carefully dropping the clip as he watched her. She popped a round out onto the table. "Take it." He ignored her. "I'm unloaded. Unarmed. Look." She put the gun down. "Take it. Pick it up."

Not taking his eyes off her, he reached for the round.

"Fuck!" he jumped like he'd been stung, dropping it. She smiled unpleasantly.

"Silver. That's how you kill a werewolf. Ordinary lead, it won't even feel. It'll just get annoyed."

"What the fuck are you playing at lady?" he growled, the gun not moving, "Because whatever fucked up game this is, I'm not buying in." _Intruder! Intruder!_

Ronnie's heart sank when she heard his growled challenge. She nodded to a photo in an ornate frame on a shelf. "That photo," she said, "The one of you and your brother. Pick it up."

"Get the hell out of my house," he told her woodenly.

"I will," she agreed, "Just humour me. Go over there, and pick up that photo."

"Now," he added.

There was a near-subsonic growl from beside her…

_Threat! Prey! Threat! You threaten my Alpha! She does not bare her throat! Submit! I will kill!_

Ronnie knew what had happened simply from the way the blood drained from Andrew's face.

"You saw that too, didn't you?" she told him with a smirk, "She's doing the teeth and the eyes, isn't she?"

He gawped. "That's… that's…. " he looked at Ronnie, then back to Joni. The dog's hellteeth were bristling, her eyes glowing angry red.

"It's real, Andrew," she told him earnestly, "It's REAL. I'm a Hunter. The whole writing-about-aliens thing is just a cover. I Hunt down stuff like werewolves, and… deal with them before they can kill. Joni, well, she's half-Hellhound. She Hunts with me. She has some… unusual talents, through her father's blood. Don't try to shoot me, Andrew. She'll tear you to pieces more quickly than any werewolf could. And don't try to shoot her, or I'll do it instead."

He stared at the dog, then back at Ronnie. "So, you're here to kill me?" he asked.

"No!" she said hurriedly, "No! There is another way! Listen, if you know what to expect, you can take measures, keep yourself in, stop yourself killing. I've met wolves who do it. It's not easy, but it can be done." She went on in a rush. "Your basement is perfect. If you shut yourself in there and bolt it from the inside, you'll be locked in, you can rampage all bloody night and not hurt anybody, although I suggest you don't wear your favourite pair of jeans and shirt. Your first change, you won't be able to manipulate a bolt. Later, you can put a lock on it, a key on a string under the door – once you're human again you can retrieve it, but wolf claws are too clumsy…"

"Get out of my house before I call the cops," he told her without looking at her.

"Andrew, please…"

"You fucking freak. What, you escaped from somewhere?" His eyes and voice were hard. "Get out. I'll gank you right there, and take my chances with your dog. Get out, and don't come back."

Ronnie made one last try. "Please, Andrew, please, listen to me, I know it sounds beyond far-fetched, but…"

He flicked off the safety. "Go." _Intruder. Disappointment. Sadness._

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I'm so sorry…" she felt her throat constrict.

She picked up her gun and left, Joni whining in concern at her side.

Andrew watched her drive away, his gut roiling. Typical. Just typical. He had to go and pick a crazy. A serious crazy. The universe hated him.

With a wordless snarl of unarticulated rage and a desperate stab of sadness, he lashed out at the door.

His fist went through the solid wood.

The stab of splinters in his hand brought him up short. He winced. The impact had rattled the shelves; the photo in the silver frame had fallen to the floor. He sighed, and picked it up. He needed a drink. He needed several drinks…

He yelped in pain, then stared, gaping, at the intricate metal lacework pattern burned sharply and painfully into his hand.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_I tried, _she told her self,_ I tried, I really did, but I fucked it up again, stupid stupid stupid…_

Joni whined, putting a paw on her Alpha's leg. _He is Prey,_ the dog observed, sounding distressed.

"It'll be okay," she said, not sure who she was trying to reassure, "It'll be okay, I'll clean up my mess, and it'll be okay…"

_I would Den with you.__ Affection._

_Intruder. Sadness._

He really didn't deserve this.

She'd have to be careful. He might have called the cops after all, told them about the crazy woman who pulling some elaborate hoax on him to write a kooky story for a kooky website, she'd have to time her approach carefully, once he changed and burst out of his house, he was fair game, he was her problem, and he really didn't deserve this…

_I would Den with you._

She was concentrating so hard on not bursting into tears that she almost missed it, and probably would have done if Joni hadn't stuck her head out the window and started barking enthusiastically.

_Den-Alpha's Pack! Brother! Den-Alpha's Pack!_

"What?" she snapped out of her musings, and let out an audible gasp.

There, in the parking lot of a diner, sat a horribly familiar black Classic Chevrolet Impala. Inside it sat a horribly familiar Rottweiler, eagerly returning Joni's barking.

"Oh, Jesus suffering fuck," she groaned out loud. The things you see when you're all out of rum…

* * *

><p>Sorry, I think I actually fell off Mount Crack there for a moment... Oh yes, from now on, nobody is allowed to use the word 'orgy' in a review. It makes one of my eyes twitch, and that makes it hard to see the screen. It's bad enough I may have to use the words 'chain' and 'naked' and 'Winchester' in the same chapter in the near future... Oh, and if you find them, be warned, Tim Tams are indeed addictive.<p>

Reviews are the Tim Tams on the Saucer of the Hot Beverage of Life! (Especially when this one is for a very selective audience, and I'm such a hopeless addict. Oh, all right, you can use the word 'orgy' it means the difference between reviewing or not reviewing. Just don't put it anywhere near 'Dean', 'moist' or 'wheelbarrow'. I won't cope.)


	10. Dean's Moist Wheelbarrow Orgy Adventure

**IRRELEVANT RAMBLING CRACK INTERLUDE #2**

_**PROMPT:** Dean's Moist Wheelbarrow Orgy Adventure! Now if that doesn't scream "Write me!" then I don't know what does. – aeicha._

Le sigh. Denizens. They're depraved. And sadistic.

* * *

><p><span>Dean's Moist Wheelbarrow Orgy Adventure<span>

**Sam:** This is a really bad idea.

**Dean:** *wheels old wooden wheelbarrow across yard* Come on, Sam, this is one of my fantasies. The least you can do is help me live it.

**Sam:** You fantasise about having sex in a dank, moist, slimy old wooden wheelbarrow?

**Dean:** Nope – I fantasise about having an orgy in a dank, moist, slimy old wooden wheelbarrow.

**Sam (wearing confused puppy expression):** But... why?

**Dean:** Because you can't fit an orgy in a modern metal one. You need a big old fashioned one.

**Sam:** ...

**Dean:** All right, all you have to do is stand there with your back to proceedings, and make sure nobody interrupts. Unless it's another hot chick.

**Sam:** Um, okay. What happens if somebody does interrupt?

**Dean:** We'll freeze and pretend to be an avant-garde garden ornament. That's why I've parked the wheelbarrow over her in the garden bed.

**Hot Chick 1:** Hi!

**Hot Chick 2:** We're here for the wheelbarrow orgy.

**Hot Chick 3:** It looks a bit moist...

**Dean:** No problem, ladies, you can go on top.

**Hot Chicks**: *giggling* Yay!

**Sam:** I still think this is a bad idea...

*a pair of hot pink panties hit him in the head*

**Sam**** (hurriedly turning his back):** I really hope those weren't yours, Dean...

*More giggling is heard. Pieces of clothing are tossed aside, some of them hitting Sam. He scrunches his eyes closed, and tries not to hear the noises behind him.*

**Occupants of the wheelbarrow:** OoooOOOOoooher... Oh yeah, right there... *pant pant pant*... *giggle giggle giggle*... Oh my God, is that for real? Look what happens when I touch it like _this_... Yeeeee! Oh, that tickles... Oh, a bit to the left... Mmmmmmmm... Don't talk with your mouth full... Oh, ohhhhh, OHHHHHHH...

*wheelbarrow collapses under the stress*

**Occupants of the wheelbarrow:** AAAAAARGH!

*Hot Chicks grab clothes and run off, leaving Dean squashed into the garden bed, coated from head to foot in mud.*

**Dean:** Saaaaaam! Do something!

**Sam:** *points and laughs*

**Dean:** Bitch!

*Dean grabs Sam, pulls him into the mud, short but vigorous wrestling session follows during which Sam's clothes are torn off. Both Winchesters are rubbing mud into each other's hair and using crude language when Bobby comes looking for his wheelbarrow.*

**Bobby:** God's tits, not again. What the hell are you idjits doin'?

**Sam and Dean**: Mulching?

**Bobby:** *le sigh*

*Bobby goes inside, makes phone call. Large white van pulls up in the yard.

_WHOOSH_

**Bobby:** Are you still running that two-for-one special?

**Aeicha:** Absolutely.

**Ciya**: That one's walking a bit funny.

**Dean:** Igtsplntr

**Leahelisabeth:** What did he say?

**Dean**: Igtsplntr

**PaulatheCat:** He's a bit muffled, let me lick some of the mud out of his mouth...

**Sam:** He says he's got a splinter.

**Denizens**: We have tweezers.

**Dean:** AAAAARGH!

**Bartlebead (snapping on gloves):** Now now, you don't have anything we haven't seen before. Or don't want to see again...

**Leahelisabeth:** So just bend over and try to relax.

**Sam:** What? I haven't got a splinter!

**Ciya:** Would you like one?

**Sam:** AAAAAAARGH!

*Denizens bundle Winchesters into van. Sounds of washing, scrubbing, massaging, moisturising and very delicate tweezering are heard. Two hours later, beautifully laundered and pleasantly fragranced Winchesters emerge from the van, wearing cute little bandanas, and clutching vouchers for trauma counselling.

**Sam:** Oh, look, they gave you a Barbie band-aid.

**Dean:** *clutches towel more tightly around self and chews on bandana*

**Bobby** (gingerly inspecting band-aid placement) Isn't it going to hurt when he tears that off? You know, fluffy butt and all...

**PaulatheCat****:** Not at all, we waxed first.

*Dean faints*

_**FIN**_

* * *

><p>If you want any more, go and write your own wheelbarrow orgy adventure (moist or otherwise) in the comments. I'm not doing that again. My eye is holding still, but the rest of me is twitching uncontrollably.<p> 


	11. Chapter 8

I'm still twitching. I hope you're all pleased with yourselves.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

An hour later, there was another knock at the front door.

Andrew put down his beer, and sighed, glumly scanning the hole in the living room door. That would have to be replaced. If that was the crazy woman again, this time he was going to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Scratch that, he was going to shoot first, and kick her twitching corpse back down the stairs. Maybe he'd adopt the dog.

It wasn't. It was two younger guys n suits, one about his own height who looked far too pretty to be male, and one who needed a few inches chopped off his legs and his hair.

"Mr Andrew Jaeger?" Pretty Boy asked politely.

"Yeah, who's asking?" he answered abruptly. He wasn't in the mood for visitors, he really wasn't…

"We're from the Department of Wildlife and Animal Control," Pretty Boy told him, "I'm David Mustaine, and this is my colleague, Phillip Lynott."

"Hey there," Tall & Tousled stuck out a hand, and Andrew shook it.

"Mr Lynott," he acknowledged as civilly as he could manage, "Mr Mustai-ah!" He sucked in his breath – was the asshole using a joy buzzer or something?

Pretty Boy looked concerned. "Is something the matter, Mr Jaeger?" he asked uncertainly.

_Wrong-wrong-wrong!_ screamed something in his brain. _Intruder! Threat!_

"No, no," Andrew smiled ruefully, "I… burned my hand earlier. My own stupid fault."

"If you wouldn't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions about the animal attack you survived earlier this month," said Tall & Tousled politely. "May we come in?"

He looked at them levelly. "I've already been interviewed extensively by the police on this matter," he pointed out.

"We just want to make sure nothing has been missed," Tall & Tousled said reassuringly, in a reassuring voice, with a reassuring smile. _Threat! _

He smiled back. "Yeah, sure," he motioned them in.

Pretty Boy examined the door on the way into the living room. "Planning on doing some renovating?" he asked with a smile.

"Guess I'll have to," admitted Andrew.

"Quite a hole," remarked Tall & Tousled, "How did that happen?"

For some reason, the guy's casual question made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

He smiled his goofiest, most sheepish smile. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," he said, rolling his eyes. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"You'll be aware that the local authorities have not been able to track down the animal that attacked you," T&T went on, "If there's some possibility it may still be out there, we want to try to locate it, and destroy it, before it can attack anyone else."

"It's gotta be dead by now," he told them, "Like I told the cops, I put a full 9-mil clip into it. Didn't even slow it down at the time, but it had to have crawled off to die somewhere after that, right?"

"Probably," conceded Pretty Boy. "In your statement, you referred to it as a large dog."

Andrew snorted. "I believe I may actually have used the phrase 'fucking huge dog', but the officer kindly translated it into Polite for me," he grinned.

"So, you're sure it was a dog?" pressed PB.

"Look, I have to tell you, like I told the police, my memory of the whole incident is pretty hazy," he told them, "It was dark, and it was on me before I had a chance to think. I kind of had an impression of something large running at me, and lots of teeth. At the time, I thought 'dog', but that's just the impression I had. I can't swear to you that I know for sure what it was. I mean, it could have been a bear, for all I know. That would explain why the gun didn't stop it. It's just kind of… a blur. It hurt. A lot. That's mostly what I was thinking as it happened."

"Did you see the animal move away or run off in a particular direction afterwards?" asked T&T.

Andrew shook his head. "No," he said truthfully. "I don't know what happened to it. When it wasn't found, I just assumed it must've crawled away after somebody found me, and took me to Emergency." He paused. "I'd be happier to know that it had been found. Preferably dead."

"So would we, Mr Jaeger," agreed PB. "I think that about covers it. If you don't have a clear memory of the incident, there's probably not a lot more you can add."

"Sorry, gentlemen," he told them with a sheepish grin, "Really, I got nothing else."

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr Jaeger," said PB.

"No problem boys." He showed them out. The polite smile faded from his face as they drove away in what looked like the least likely government departmental car he'd ever seen.

Phil Lynott and Dave Mustaine. Right. Did these guys really think nobody listened to music like that any more? Twenty-five-odd years ago, I spent an evening puking on and getting puked on by Dave Mustaine, you dick, and I can tell you, you aint him…

Something was wrong. Those two were… dangerous. He didn't know how he knew, but something very strange was going on.

He felt himself baring his teeth. If that crazy woman dared show her face again, he was going to grab her by _(sink his teeth into) _the scruff of her neck, and shake some damned answers out of her.

He stared out into the yard, nostrils flaring. _Someone watching?_

Screw them. Crazy people. The more he met people, the more he thought he should get a dog.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Andrew was right about one thing. He may not have seen them, but two pairs of eyes – one pair canine, one pair human (mostly) watched the Winchesters leave.

Ronnie's eyes narrowed. Of course, it wouldn't be a coincidence that they were in town. They were Hunting. How the hell they'd got wind of what happened, she didn't know – Sam had probably figured it out. He was the smart one.

Her mess. Hers to clean up. Hers to deal with.

_I would Den with you._

Her grandmother, whom she'd adored and idolised (the family always said that when she was finally killed by vampires, all the ones that fed from her died later from bile poisoning) had once told her that 'If you have to fight for a man, he's not worth the fight'. But she was damned if she was going to see Girly Boy Winchester riddle him with silver because she'd been dumb enough to let him get him bitten. If he thought she was some escapee from the nearest facility for the safe containment of the criminally insane, that would be a small price to pay.

She'd tried nice, polite, reasonable. Just how Gammer Shepherd would have wanted her to. That hadn't worked. It was time to put Miss Manners back in the box, and employ The Cranky Bitch Within.

"Fuck you, Gammer Shepherd. Sorry," she muttered as she slunk away through the trees.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"He's our wolf," confirmed Dean, "Did you see the 'burn' on his hand? Looked suspiciously like the pattern on the silver frame that photo was in, on the bookshelf." He waggled his right hand, where he was wearing the heavy silver ring. "And the guy jumped when he got a hold of this."

"I saw the fist-sized hole through a solid door," commented Sam. "He's not a small guy, Dean, he's going to be a handful once he's changed. Remember the first Old North wolf we tackled, when Jimi was half-grown?"

"Don't remind me," muttered Dean. "Still, he's all grown up now. He'll bring that guy down no problem, right, J-Man?" Hearing his name, Jimi whuffed happily from the back seat. "See? He's got it covered."

"Let's hope so," Sam commented. "This guy so much as twitches after we've darted him, I'm filling him full of silver, paid employment be damned," he glared at Dean.

"That's fair," Dean told him, "We're getting paid to bring it down alive, not get ourselves eaten. If we gotta kill it, that's what we do."

"Did he seem kind of… hinky to you?" Sam wondered out loud. "Wary? Suspicious?"

"Sam, the guy was nearly torn apart by a werewolf!" Dean remarked. "He's been pestered by the police, by the doctors, by the police again, he's probably just sick to death of being told how lucky he is and being pestered to describe something his brain won't let him acknowledge as being real. Under the circumstances, I'd be hinky, too."

"He did put his fist through a door," Sam conceded.

"Definite symptom of hinkiness. Hinky. Hinky." went Dean. "Hinky hinky hinky. I like that word. Hinky. It rhymes with slinky. And kinky. Kinky kinky kinky."

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, dropping his head into his hands. "I'm getting a headache."

"No problem, bro," Dean grinned, "You can go have a nap this afternoon, then have your bath after we eat. Or you could go and get your hair done. Somewhere nice. You can have it in curlers, while I'm not there, breaking in Baby's new suspension…"

"I don't need to know about that, Dean."

"What, it makes you feel hinky? Do you think it's kinky? Kinky makes you hinky, doesn't it?"

"Dean, stop saying that."

"What, hinky? Oh, you mean kinky. Yeah, kinky. You don't like kinky. Mr Vanilla doesn't like kinky. Sam hates kinky. Leaving the lights on is kinky. Makes him hinky. I like kinky. Kinky doesn't make me the least bit hinky. Kinky, and a little bit slinky. But mostly kinky."

"Dean! Shut! Up!"

"Sam?'

"What?"

"Nipple."

"Jerk."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The next evening, Andrew was just starting to believe that the whack jobs were finally leaving him alone when Ronnie evaded the Winchesters' stake-out, broke in through the back door and made her way silently to the living room, with Joni trotting noiselessly at her heels.

He was on his feet, face angry, the moment he saw her. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, "Get the fuck out of..."

She hit him with a left cross that would've made Gammer Shepherd proud, if somewhat disapproving of the unladylike expression that accompanied it.

He stared up at her from the floor. "What the fuck?"

She grabbed his arm and hauled him upright. "Come with me," she snarled, not waiting for his response.

"Now just a minute, you fucking freak," he began, yanking out of her grip, "Who the hell do you think..."

She hit him again.

"Just for information, you are not the first male wolf I've taken down – I can do this all night," she smiled mirthlessly, "But we don't have that much time. Come on."

She half-led, half-dragged the dazed man to the basement door. She shoved him through. He grabbed at her arm, snarling, so she stuck her gun in his face.

"Don't," she warned him. "You're not armed, I am, and I'm just about pissed off enough to use it."

"You're crazy," he announced incredulously. "You're not just flying over the cuckoo's nest, sister, you're stopping to lay eggs."

"Yeah, probably," she agreed, unslinging her backpack. She pulled out a length of chain and a couple of padlocks. "This looks like a nice downpipe," she commented, "Sit down and get comfortable."

He laughed mirthlessly. "If you think I'm just going to sit here and let some insane bitch chain me up in my own fucking basement..."

"You're going to do exactly that," she told him. "Now. I'm happy to hit you again, if it will preserve your manly dignity. It'll certainly make me feel better."

He eyed her curiously. "That's a long chain," he noted, "There's things down here I can use to get myself out of that."

"Not in the time you have left before you change," she informed him. "And once you shift, all there is, is hunger, and rage. Oh, and beating yourself to a pulp against the walls. The first few times, anyway. What jolly times you are in for. How we shall laugh about it afterwards. I'll let you out once you're human again. I really hope those aren't a favourite pair of pants. I did warn you about that."

"You really are insane," he repeated, sitting down. She locked the chain around his ankle, and through the downpipe. He started to laugh.

"Well, I'm glad you can see the funny side," she grumped at him, "Because I sure as shit can't."

"Oh, it's not funny," he chortled, "It's… ludicrous. I served overseas, you know, and there have been times when I thought I was going to get shot, but then to get chained up and shot by a fucking lunatic in my own damned basement…"

"I'm not here to kill you, I'm here to try to keep you alive, you dickhead!" she shouted angrily. "Will you be told! Although I'm starting to wonder why I'm bothering. Those two idiots who visited you this afternoon, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber…"

"Who? Phil Lynott and Dave Mustaine?" he snorted humourlessly again. "I thought they were friends of yours, because they were more full of shit than a septic tank."

"They're acquaintances," she said shortly. "They're Hunters. Dean and Sam Winchester. Dean's the one who looks like he's hijacked Angelina Jolie's collagen supplier, and Sam's the one who escaped from a Sasquatch captive breeding program. They Hunt with Joni's brother. Don't fuck with him. They're the best in the business. If they're here in town, they're here to kill you. You change and bust out of your house, that's exactly what they'll do. Hell, you get out of your house, it's what I'll do. Just so you know." She paused. "Did they really use those names?" she asked in a pained tone.

" 'Fraid so," he told her. She sighed heavily, as if they'd done it to vex her personally.

"God, men, you're all so, so, so… male! I suggest you take your boots off," she told him matter-of-factly. "Oh, I thought you might like to use this." She handed over a small, basic digital video camera. "There's a good chance you'll destroy it, but with a bit of luck we'll be able to salvage the card afterwards. Film yourself, if you don't believe me."

"Uh-huh," he nodded, "So, you do much of this, going around, chaining guys up in their basements, filming them?"

"I'm not filming you, I suggest you do it," she corrected him, "Filming is optional, but very useful as a memory aid the next day. Because you're not going to remember it all that clearly tomorrow."

"So you're a pervert as well as insane," he snorted. "Great. Just fucking great."

"Oh, it gets better," she told him airily. "You'll wake up stark naked tomorrow. And feeling like shit. Don't worry, I'll send Joni down with some stuff for you. If I haven't flounced off in disgust." The dog darted forward and licked his face happily.

"Oh yeah, it just gets better and better," he sighed glumly. "So, what happens now?"

"I go upstairs, and wait," she told him, heading for the stairs. "You stay down here, and turn into a werewolf. Film it. Go on. It'll be quite a show. See you tomorrow," she waved to him breezily, and shut the door behind her. He heard the sound of it being bolted from outside.

Okay, what the fuck had just happened? Crazy woman broke into his house, hit him hard enough to make him see stars, dragged him to the basement, shoved a gun in his face, chained him up, and... suggested he film himself? She really had bought into the whole werewolf thing. Well, two could play at the crazy game.

He opened the camera, pressed 'Record', and smiled at the viewfinder.

"Hi there, fucking crazy woman. It's me here, Andrew, the guy you're playing some insane prank on. Hi! See, I'm waving. I'm starting this thing so you can watch me go over to the cupboard over there, see, that grey one, and get out my angle grinder, then I'm going to plug it in and cut through this crap, then I'm going to use the drill or the saw to get through the door, then I'm going to get something else out of the gun safe, which happens to be down here too, then I'm going to shoot you, but I'll only shoot your dog if she tries to bite me, then I'm going outside to shoot your truck, then I think I'll come inside and jump up and down on your corpse, and then you know what? I'm going to come back down here, and shoot this camera. And it'll be like, 'No, no, please, don't kill me, I'm just a digital appliance, I just do what I'm told, have mercy, I have a wife and three kids and two of them need orthodontics!' but I'm going to kill it anyway, then I'm going to sneak out there, oh sweetheart, I remember how to sneak, and I'm going to give your two dick friends a little surprise, although I'll do my best not to hurt the Chevy, because it's a thing of beauty, and I'm going to feed Pretty Boy his own lips and give Tall and Tousled a haircut, possibly with the angle grinder, and then…"

He gasped as a vise-like cramp hit his gut. He dropped to the floor, writhing as the cramps spread to his legs.

By chance, the camera kept running.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Ronnie knew when it had started; she felt the same tug of the full moon, the call to the wolf, the creeping urge to let the change take over, to get out, under the night sky, and _run-run-run…_

A gut-wrenching shriek that morphed into an anguished howl drifted up from the basement. It was a still night; the Winchesters probably heard it too.

She dragged a chair to the basement door and sat, watching, gun in one hand, coffee in the other. It was going to be a long night.

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><p>Reviews are the Waterproof Video Cameras accidentally left running in the Winchesters' Bathroom of Life!<p> 


	12. Chapter 9

I really don't know why I bother with the story, really I don't, you lot are obsessed, and all you really need are some vaguely suggestive mental pictures of Winchesters, a certain amount of undress and possibly the odd strategically placed bandana or smear of grease. I could just write a series of unconnected sentences or short paragraphs of Dean and Sam getting some kit off in various situations, permutations and combinations. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Dean rolling about on a bed covered in money, wearing nothing but a smile, and possibly doing something to pass the time... Sam in the shower with a bottle of shower gel and a waterproof thesaurus, getting clean, purified, unstained, cleansed, washed, spotless, stainless, decontaminated... You should all be in therapy. I have a feeling you're going to put me into therapy.

Fear not, I am sure those nasty-wasty werewolves will not harm a single adorable hair on the Living Sex God or the Puppy-Eyed Sammy. Although Ronnie may call Dean a rude name at some point. I'm sure he'll return fire. I can't say the same for Creepy Croydon (he is creepy, isn't he?) and his horrible henchmen, though. And let's face it, there are far too many people out there who enjoy a bit of Winchesters In Peril. Did I mention that I think you're all depraved?

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><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

Dean sighed. Dean hummed. Dean drummed on the steering wheel. Dean sucked his teeth. Dean made every noise he could think of with his mouth. Dean belched. Dean sighed even more heavily. Dean slurped his coffee. Dean fiddled with the binoculars. Dean whistled through his teeth. Dean made high-pitched squeaky noises to get Jimi to cock his head sideways and look adorably confused. Dean grinned worryingly at Sam for no apparent reason. Dean practised his evil laugh. Dean trawled his vocabulary for words that would make Sam uncomfortable. Dean broke wind with astonishing ferocity.

Dean was bored.

"Jesus, Dean!" snapped Sam, rolling down the passenger window, "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"I'm bored," his big brother complained. "He should've turned three hours ago! Moist."

"He did, if the howl was anything to judge by," Sam commented, taking the binoculars and scanning the house.

"So, what's he doing in there? Brushing his teeth? Admiring his new physique? Giving himself a good grooming before he heads out into the night?" asked Dean. "Orgy."

"I don't know," Sam replied, "Your guess is as good as mine." He looked thoughtful. "It's possible he may have managed to… contain himself," he added.

"What, like, lock himself in the bathroom or something? Vibrating," asked Dean.

"The occasional one figures it out, or at least figures out that something is seriously wrong," Sam reminded him. "He did seem a bit, you know…"

"Hinky?"

"Yeah, a bit hinky about us, like he suspected something." Sam said. "He might know something, or suspect something…"

"His name sounds German," noted Dean, "So it's possible that a grandparent might've told him stories from the old country. Hell, these days, he could've googled it. Blindfold."

Sam scowled at his brother, and reached for his computer. Then he smiled. "Get this, 'jaeger' is German for 'Hunter'. Maybe there is some family connection. One way or the other, it looks like our wolf has found out at least enough to keep himself out of harm's way."

"I'm not going to complain about that, but I'd better let Alex know what's going on. Threesome."

His phone rang as he reached for it.

"Yeah. Yeah, I was about to call you," Dean told Croydon. "We're watching the house, but he hasn't got out. Yeah, pretty sure, we heard him howl, but we think he's found some way to keep himself locked in. No movement. Yeah, we'll keep watching, but I got a feeling this one's going to be a no-show. Uh-huh. That's cool. Bye." He shut his phone. "That was him," he told Sam, "Tumescent."

"So, what now?" his brother asked.

"We stay here, and make sure he doesn't get out and go rampaging," replied Dean. "If he doesn't, we can probably chalk him up as one who's not going to be a threat. If he shows before morning, we dart him if we can, ganking him if we have to. Moan."

"Fine," said Sam, "But you can stop being so damned annoying right now."

"I'm just bored," complained Dean, "I don't like sitting and doing nothing. I'd rather be ganking. That would make a good bumper sticker. 'I'd Rather Be Ganking Fuglies'. Except not on my Baby. Nobody is putting a bumper sticker on my Baby. Engorged."

"Dean, I don't care if you're bored, stop it," snarked Sam.

"Slick."

"Dean…"

"Hot tub."

"Dean…"

"Naked."

"Dean…"

"Daffodil."

De- what?"

"Sorry. Hog-tied."

"DEAN!"

"Chromed nipples?"

"_DEAN!_ I swear, one day I'm going to gag you with your own socks!"

"Oh, God, Sam, you kinky bastard, I had no idea…"

"Jerk."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Waking up feeling like crap was something Andrew had done previously. Usually, though, he had at least some memory of having had some sort of fun the night before, involving consumption of large volumes of alcohol, even if it usually got a bit hazy around the time people started puking or passing out or drawing on each other with markers.

He rolled sideways carefully, just in case there was a puddle of something unpleasant lying in ambush. Waking up in a strange place, be it strange as in 'unfamiliar' or strange as in 'unexpected' was also something he'd done before. Certainly, this wasn't the first time he'd woken up with his face stuck to a hard and uncomfortable floor.

However, it was the first time he had ever woken up naked, and chained up. Well, the first time he could remember, anyway. No, belay that, he was pretty sure that if it had ever happened before, he'd definitely remember. It wasn't the sort of thing you were likely to forget. Depending on who else was involved, it could possibly be a treasured happy memory…

The word _Ronnie_ popped into his head.

For a truly confronting moment, his beleaguered brain tried to recall if they'd resolved the argument that seemed to have cropped up between them, and gotten, um, friendlier, and, and, and, oh, God, if something _really interesting _had happened and he couldn't remember he'd never forgive himself…

Then reality had to go and spoil it all, and come crashing back in with an almost audible 'thud'.

_You stay down here, and turn into a werewolf. Film it. Go on. It'll be quite a show._

Andrew groaned, and sat up.

His hands were bruised and bleeding – they really did look like he'd been punching the walls. The rest of him was splattered with what was presumably his own blood, and his ankle was bruised where the chain was still locked around it. Every bit of him ached, and he felt exhausted.

_Oh, it gets better. You'll wake up stark naked tomorrow. And feeling like shit._

It really wasn't fair to feel like this without some serious partying having happened beforehand. Although judging from the trashed state of the basement, there had obviously been some serious something going on. The work bench, a monstrous thing made of hardwood (he'd carried it down the stairs with two friends and assembled it in situ) had been tossed aside.

Oh, shit.

He was dazedly contemplating the situation when he heard the door unbolt. It opened a fraction, and Joni came trotting down the stairs with a bag in her mouth. She dropped it at his side, and began to sniff anxiously at him, whuffing and licking at his hands.

The bag contained some of his clothes, a couple of towels, a bottle of water, and a key on a piece of string.

He unlocked himself, cleaned up as best he could and dressed. As he was about to head up the stairs, his eye landed on something small and silver on the other side of the room. A video camera. The lens and view finder were cracked.

Ronnie was in the kitchen, with her back to him. He slid into one of the chairs, and she dropped a steaming mug on the table in front of him. He sniffed at it.

"Houndswort," she told him, "It'll help. Vitamins for werewolves."

"Werewolves," he repeated dully.

"Werewolves," she repeated. "Just like you. Here." She put a plate piled with toast, eggs and bacon in front of him. "You'll feel better if you eat something."

"I'm not hungry," he muttered.

"Bullshit," she replied in a no-nonsense tone. "Did you do much damage down there? Sounded pretty spectacular."

"The, er, work bench," he said, staring into the mug, then back at her. "Have you been here all night?" he asked.

"Yep," she confirmed, "Keeping an eye on you. Or more specifically, your basement door. In case you got out." She pulled out her gun, dropped the clip out, and waved it under his nose. He hissed, and jumped backwards at the acrid, unpleasant smell that burned at his nose. She grinned mirthlessly. "Stinks now, doesn't it?" she said. "Silver. Remember that scent, it might just save you hurting yourself."

He sat silently, uncomprehending.

"Ah, you retrieved the camera," Ronnie noted. "You got a card reader on your computer?"

"What?" he looked at her, still feeling dazed.

"With a bit of luck, you may have filmed yourself transforming," she informed him. "It's no good me doing it, you'll just accuse me of doing some amazing things with photoshop while you were down there." She dropped into a chair beside him. "What do you remember?" She was relentless.

"Nothing," he told her, "I don't… you left me the camera, and I started it, then… "

There were no articulate memories, just impressions, thoughts, and strange drives.

_Fear. Confusion, bewilderment. Hunger. And then, anger. Rage. A burning urge to rend, claw, bite, feel the blood in his mouth and the meat beneath his claws…_

He found he was cramming another piece of toast into his mouth, and the plate was half empty. He sat up with a start.

"Have a shower, get some sleep," Ronnie told him, getting up. "Call me when you're feeling almost human."

"Ronnie…" the soft pleading note in his voice stopped her. "Ronnie, what happened?"

The smile she turned on him was sad. "Andrew, you know," she answered. "I told you what would happen, but now, you _know_. You know what you are."

"I don't…" _Confusion, bewilderment. Hunger. And then, anger. Rage. _"Fuck," he breathed, "It…it really happened." He turned a bemused, lost expression to her. "It really happened."

"It really happened," she echoed. "And it's permanent, and it's not fair, and it sucks, and it may yet be the death of you. But it doesn't have to be. Your basement held you last night. You can learn to contain yourself. If you don't get out, and you don't kill, Hunters won't notice you, and you'll be left alone." Her voice was gentle. "Andrew, I'm so sorry," she said. "But it can be done. I mean it. Call me when you feel better. Eat, wash, change, sleep, then eat. You'll find you want to eat a lot more. The good news is, it won't go straight to your gut." She called up Joni and prepared to leave.

"Wait!" he sounded so plaintive that she couldn't help pausing, "Where are you going?"

"To eat, wash, change, sleep, then eat," she grinned at him. "I'm knackered. And you have a lot to take in, and think about. You'll need to be contained for the three nights of the full moon. I'll give you a hand tonight." She left the same way she'd come. He sat at the kitchen table, his aching head buzzing with questions, the most insistent one being _How the hell do I apologise for being a total dick on such a grand scale?_

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Really? Well, that was unexpected. Good, obviously, because a werewolf who doesn't run loose can't kill anyone," Alex Croydon made himself keep any trace of anger out of his voice. "Any idea how he managed it? Well, I suppose we should just be grateful that he did." He managed to sound a little bit thankful. "Still, if you're willing, I think it would be prudent to keep watch tonight, just to make sure it isn't some sort of fluke. If he's going to be self-contained, obviously, he won't be a problem, but if he does get out and hurt someone, I'd never forgive myself, and I'm sure you wouldn't either. Uh-huh. Yeah. That would be great. Okay, keep me informed. Thanks Dean, good job." He stuffed his phone angrily back into a pocket. "Damn, damn, damn," he muttered darkly.

"Problem?" asked the unshaven man sitting across the table from him.

"Actually, yeah," Croydon told his companion. "They watched the house all night, and they're sure he changed – heard him howl – but he didn't get out. He would have changed back at least an hour ago now. He's still in there. Somehow, he managed to contain himself."

"Is there any chance he knows what he is?" asked the unkempt man.

"Highly unlikely. Any Hunter that finds him would gank him. No, it's some sort of coincidence. He's got himself locked in, somehow."

"So, you think he'll get out tonight?" the other man persisted.

"Oh, I know he'll get out tonight," Croydon smiled in a predatory fashion, "Because you, Burke, my friend, are going to pay him a little visit, and make sure the silly fellow doesn't get stuck somewhere too confining. It's not healthy, for a big strong werewolf to be cooped up inside. They need open space."

The man named Burke grinned unpleasantly. "Funny, I was thinking something similar," he said. "They do need their exercise."

"Exactly," confirmed Croydon. "And as you know, nothing, but nothing, is more important to me than the welfare of the wolves I want brought in."

For some reason, Burke found this remark uproariously funny.

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><p>The more reviews you write, the more my therapist will have to work with.<p> 


	13. Chapter 10

Just so you know, I have plans for Creepy Croydon, but feel free to make suggestions if it makes you feel better (even ones involving wheelbarrows)... and for any of the more recently arrived Denizens who wonder what werewolf sex is like, be warned - Dean asked prurient questions in the stories 'The Thing' and 'Six', and discovered that they are quite private about That Sort Of Thing, so he wrote his own werewolf sex scene, and lived to regret it. Dear Cas, you lot don't really want details of... _that_, do you? I'm not going to end up writing a lupine Harlequin Romance here, am I? I don't think I could cope...

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><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

He retrieved the card from the camera and copied the file to his computer. It didn't get any less surreal with repeated viewing. The image was tilted sideways, the camera having landed on its side when he dropped it after delivering his introductory monologue, but it clearly depicted him... deforming, rearranging, changing. 'Shifting' was the term Ronnie had used. He had a vague memory of the painful spasms that had heralded his body reconfiguring itself; he shuddered as the... _thing_ on the screen let out a shriek that changed into a howl.

The thing that staggered to its hind feet and stood upright was a monster, massive, with fangs that had to be at least three inches long. It has seemed confused, tugging repeatedly at the chain tethering it to the downpipe, confusion giving way to anger, and snarling, slavering rage. It threw the workbench aside with a casual swipe of one... arm? Front leg? The gouges out of the hardwood slab belied the force behind the claws.

In the last moments of the clip, it dropped to all fours, and sniffed suspiciously at the camera. The monstrous face loomed large, pulling into a vicious snarl before a swipe sent the camera tumbling across the floor.

_That's me, _he told himself,_ That's me, I'm a werewolf. I'm a monster. I'm a monster_.

_Monster. Monster._

"I'd debate that, or at least hold off judgement for a while," said a voice from behind him, "Now you know what you are, you can decide what to do about it."

He whipped around, startled. Ronnie stood there, almost giving him the smile. Joni was less restrained; she trotted to him, put her feet on his lap, and whuffed a happy greeting, tail wagging.

"You'll notice that Joni does not agree," Ronnie went on, "And her pedigree has a habit of being excellent judges of character." Her expression was sympathetic. "It must be hard to believe right now, it has got to be impossibly difficult for you to take all this in, but I think you can deal with it."

"I didn't realise I was talking to myself," he said distantly. "I was just watching..." he gestured helplessly to the screen, lost for words. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"I didn't hear from you, and I wanted to arrive in time to avoid the surveillance," she told him.

"What surveillance?" he asked.

"Phil and Dave, remember them?" she grinned. "They were watching your house last night. You being a newly turned werewolf, an unknown quantity, they'll watch you for the next two nights, to make sure you're really contained, and last night wasn't just some fluke."

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Because it's what I'd do, plus, I saw them," she replied. "Which is why I've come sneaking in through the back door."

"I thought you knew them," he queried.

"Acquainted, I called them acquaintances," she clarified. "It'll just be... less complicated if they don't know I'm here. Sam's okay, I've given him some advice on training up their dog, but Dean... not so much. We're not exactly best friends. A favourite author of mine would describe us as 'getting along like a house on fire'."

"As in, 'Screams, flames, people running for safety'?" he asked.

"Yes, exactly!" she suddenly smiled _that _smile at him, and just for a moment, he could almost believe that maybe this wasn't going to be a living nightmare, he could deal with it...

"May I?" she asked, gesturing at the screen. Wordlessly, he pushed his chair back, and started the clip playing again.

Her expression remain unchanged. He had expected at least a certain amount of revulsion, disgust, but by the time it finished, she looked thoughtful.

"You know," she began, apparently choosing her words carefully, "As Old North wolves go, you are a pretty damned fine specimen."

He stared at her. "You have got to be shitting me," he said, somewhere between flabbergasted and mortified.

"I shit you not," she countered. "Seriously, using that pipe for scale, you must be, what, at least seven feet? Three hundred pounds, minimum. You're alpha male material, Andrew. You are the shit." She was grinning at him, she was actually _grinning_...

He stared at her open-mouthed. "Gee, that makes me feel so much better," he said finally, "I'll remember that, next time I'm writhing on the basement floor in pain and terror, knowing I'm going to turn into a bloodthirsty crazed man-eating abomination with an insatiable drive to kill and devour people, and guys like Phil and Dave are out there just waiting to gank me if I fuck up, if I don't wake up naked chained to a pipe and wondering what the hell I did the night before, yeah, that's what I'll remember, okay, I might be a monster who should be put down like a mad feral dog before I kill somebody, but hey, I'm the bee's knees, the mutt's nuts, and if there was such a thing as Wolfess Weekly, they'd be pounding on my door to put me on their Bachelor of the Year calendar – Andrew is a mechanic, who likes classic cars, heavy rock, Discworld books and howling, he'd like to meet a lady who enjoys long runs under the full moon and eating Italians, and his idea of a good night out is trashing his basement and waking up naked chained to a pipe... _what_?"

Ronnie was laughing. It was not cynical, humourless laughter, it was genuine amusement.

"Yeah, well, I'm glad you think it's funny, because..."

She turned to face him, and her expression stopped him dead.

_That_ smile. It was blinding. It was... the smile, her scent, her posture, the sound of her laughter, it was overwhelming. It made his stomach lurch. _Oh, God, what do I have to do to get you to look at me like that again..._

"She-wolf," she corrected, "The term is she-wolf. Not wolfess."

"I can't deal with this," he finished, feeling silly and lost and totally out of his depth. "I think I'm gibbering. I feel like I'm… drowning."

"It's okay," she reassured him, subsiding, "Jesus, Andrew, you've just found out you're a frigging werewolf! Look at yourself! You ARE dealing with it." She studied him critically. "You haven't eaten, have you?" she accused.

"Uh, no," he admitted, "I've kind of had other things on my mind." _Go on, laugh like that again…_

"I can't imagine why," she remarked dryly, heading for the kitchen. "Come on, I'll impress you with my mad kitchen skills."

"You have mad kitchen skills?" he echoed. The last twenty-four hours had been utterly surreal.

"Well, substantially unbalanced with poor impulse control kitchen skills," she qualified, poking around in the refrigerator. "Blame my grandmother. She had very definite Ideas about the skills a well-adjusted young lady needed. Cooking was one of them, imparted practically at gunpoint. I do a very good pie. You're going to have to get used to buying more red meat, but I'll see what I can do."

Surreal. That was definitely the word. Ronnie cooked, they talked, about their families, and their backgrounds (Andrew was sure she was censoring as she went, but guessed it must be a Hunter thing). Joni stayed close, apparently intent on offering him a constant supply of reassuring whuffs and doggy grins for moral support.

"So, vampires are real but they have lots of teeth, ghosts are real, Rawheads are real, Hellhounds are real but you can't usually see them, poltergeists are real, witches are real but they're just evil humans, demons are real, fairies are real, but unicorns are not."

"Well, technically, they could be, but I've never met anyone who's seen one, or read a credible account of a sighting, so the received wisdom is, no."

"What about mermaids?"

"No."

"Sasquatches?"

"No. Unless you count Sam Winchester."

"Centaurs?"

"No."

"Pegasus?"

"Nope."

"Donald Trump?"

"Yes."

"Paris Hilton?"

"Yes."

"Miley Cyrus?"

"Yes."

"The Jonas Brothers?"

"Now you're being silly."

"Do you know how to kill them? Does silver work? Salt? Holy water? Iron shot?"

"Well, decapitation works on most things, so I suppose…."

"Tom Cruise?"

"Andrew…."

"Kanye West?"

Andrew!"

"Oh, God, don't tell me Tyra Banks is real? Kill it! Kill it with fire!"

"This whole werewolf thing has really messed with your mind, hasn't it?"

As darkness fell, he started to feel… edgy.

"You can feel it, can't you?" she cocked her head, studying him. "Learn to recognise that, it'll tell you when you're running out of leeway, and have to hole up."

"I'd like to try the key-on-a-string thing," he told her, "See if I can do it myself. The deadbolt should hold." He turned a vaguely bemused expression on her. "Ronnie, you're a Hunter, why are you doing this?"

"To make sure you don't get out and kill anybody, you der-brain," she snorted.

"No, I mean, why haven't you just killed me?" He clarified. "Why go to the trouble of convincing me of what I am, and showing me how to deal with it? I mean, Jesus, I pulled a gun on you!"

Her face was regretful. "Because I think you deserve a chance," she answered quietly. "You're a nice guy, Andrew, you didn't deserve this…" she paused, then went on, "And you deserve a chance. If you find you can't deal with it, look, I'll leave you some silver ammo before I go, nobody would think less of you if they knew… you deserve a chance," she finished.

He nodded. "Okay," he said. "Look, this is going to sound stupid, but… would you leave me to do this tonight?" His tone took on a pleading note. "I… I don't want you in the house. If you have to watch, fine, but…" he trailed off, sighing hopelessly.

"It's okay," she reassured him, "If that's what you need, me and Joni will hide in the undergrowth outside."

"You won't have to," he reminded her, "Dave and Phil will be out there, waiting."

"It won't come to that," she said firmly, and God help him, he believed her.

She watched the door shut behind him, heard the key in the lock, and saw the key, trailing its string, appear under the door.

"Good to go in here," his muffled voice told her, a couple of minutes later.

"Right, then," she answered. "See you in the morning." She called to Joni, and they slunk silently out of the house.

She found a place to conceal herself and her dog in the trees, away from the house, but close enough to intervene if anything went wrong. She heard the howl, and a couple of experimental thumps, but the door held. The noise subsided this time – maybe he'd realised that he was shut in, and wasn't wasting the effort on escape that was not possible.

The light evening breeze stirred the leaves around her a little, and brought the scents of the night to her nose. Cold, clean air, the smell of the river, the greenery, the familiar scent of Joni, her Pack, and then

_Male. Alpha male._

She gasped.

_Male. Male male male alpha male, strong, healthy, close_

Her human mind reeled as the wolf tried to rise, straining after the intoxicating scent – she knew he wasn't doing it on purpose, but

_Male male male close affection he would Den with you_

She was so intent on the war between the woman and the wolf that she didn't notice a second scent drifting in the breeze from the same direction, as another man made his way silently into the house from a rear window. In fact, she didn't notice anything until Joni broke into her thoughts with a low growl. She forced her attention back to the house, and frowned in confusion as the front door swung open. Something was wrong…

A few moments later, Andrew burst through the open door, snarling, muzzle to the air, scenting…

It was like a slap in the face.

_Magnificent. Strong, healthy, male male male_

The enormous wolf dropped to all fours, and slunk into the undergrowth, moving silently, and fuck he was moving fast. It was not the charge of a maddened animal rampaging mindlessly; he had caught a scent, and was stalking.

He was headed for the Winchesters.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Oh, God, Sam, open a damned window!" Dean grabbed his nose theatrically. 'I am never letting you eat burritos again, ever, toxic taco boy!"

"Consider it payback for last night," Sam told him serenely, "And if I'm not allowed to eat burritos, you're not allowed to have onion rings, cheeseburgers or baked beans."

"Seriously, there's something wrong with you," insisted Dean, "Some sort of chemical reactor in your stomach that turns food into nerve gas. It's a good thing the military never found out about you, there's a good chance they'd have taken guardianship of you so they could threaten to drop you on the Russians or something…

"Look at that," Sam interrupted, pointing to the house they were watching, "Did the front door just open?"

Dean lifted his own binoculars. "Yeah," he confirmed, mystified, "How the hell did that happen? If he's shapeshifted, there's no way he could possibly open that, he'd just bust through it, or come through a window, or FUCK!"

Both of them saw the monstrous thing emerge, snarling, testing the air.

"Christ, he's huge," muttered Sam, "Are these things going to be enough to drop him?"

"Guess this is where we find out," Dean said grimly. "Come on, one way or another, we gotta stop him."

"What's he doing?" They watched the wolf drop and melt into the trees. "Looks kind of self-controlled for a werewolf."

"He's stalking, Sammy," Dean told him, getting out of the car and letting Jimi out, "He's hunting."

"Out here?" Sam said. "What's he hunting?"

"Us, bro. He's caught our scent." He checked his dart pistol, and his own silver-loaded gun. "We need to get a clear shot, so we get our best chance at seeing him and darting him, then… Jimi?"

Jimi had his nose lifted to the air, turning his head back and forth. The dog was wearing an expression of concentration, and confusion. He whined, as if unable to decide what he should do.

"Jimi? What's wrong, fella?" asked Dean, looking around as he scratched the dog's ears. "It's just a werewolf, J-Man, you've taken these guys down before."

Jimi whined again uncertainly, then trotted across the small clearing and back again.

"We need to find a better place to take him on, more open than this," said Dean, scanning the small clearing, "We have to move to higher…"

A huge grey streak, moving frighteningly fast, shot silently out of the trees and hit Dean like a truck. The impact carried wolf and man over the embankment the Impala was parked on. Dean sprawled on the slope, winded, while the wolf disappeared back into the trees.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, starting down towards his brother.

"Don't!" Dean gasped, gulping for air. "I'm… okay, just… winded." He groped around for his pistol. "Stay up… there, with Jimi," he instructed, breathing heavily, "It's trying to separate us. More flat open space to tackle him there." He groaned, rolling sideways and pushing up onto his knees.

"Dean, you're a sitting duck down there," Sam said angrily, "If you don't get your ass back up here right now, I am coming down there to get you, because…"

He heard a low rumbling growl behind him.

He whipped around, dart pistol raised, but saw nothing. Jimi whined uncertainly again, radiating confusion.

"Dean," he called, "It's up here, and Jimi's acting funny…"

It moved so fast he didn't see until it was ploughing into him, knocking the air from his lungs and sending the pistol flying.

"Sam? Sam! " Dean called anxiously, wheezing and scrambling up the embankment. "What's happening?"

Sam shook his head, dazed, as Jimi nudged at him worriedly. Smart, it was smart… Weapon, a weapon, he needed the pistol, or his gun…

He wasn't all the way to his feet when it emerged from the bushes, and he got a really good look at the size of the thing. He scrabbled for balance, and for his gun, but the monster was too fast, it was on him, and he could smell its overpowering musky scent and see the fangs that were going to tear him to pieces…

Something fast-moving hit the wolf and sent it sprawling.

Sam blinked. Was he seeing double?

No, there were clearly two wolves. The one that had bowled into the monster about to eat him was much smaller, about his own height, but solidly built. It – she, he realised – planted herself between the massive male, and Sam.

The male made to move around her. She moved to stay between them.

The larger wolf bared its fangs and roared angrily at the smaller one, aiming a backhanded swipe at it. The smaller one dodged, roared just as angrily, then darted in and cuffed the larger one soundly alongside the ear. The startled bark the male let out would have been funny, if it wasn't so close and so big and so intent on killing him…

The female moved in close to the male, growling and barking, a chattering, scolding sound. Sam finally drew his gun. She heard the movement, and turned to face him, placing one front paw on the male's chest. He got a good look at her then, the long scar running the length of her face from ear to muzzle; he realised that the darkened patches her could see on either side of her sternum were tattoos.

The female werewolf raised her other front paw in a gesture of appeal. The male was concentrating on her now, whuffing, sniffing intently at her ears and face.

"Sam, get down!" Sam heard Dean behind him, heard the click of a gun cocking.

"No!" he hissed, holding up a hand to forestall his brother, without taking his eyes of the werewolves, "Dean, wait!"

"What the fuck?" Dean moved to stand by Sam, who had lowered his own gun. "What the hell is this?" he demanded taking in the scene, "Where the fuck did that other one come from?"

His eyes bugged when the female grinned a doggy grin… and winked at him.

"Dean," Sam began carefully, "It's okay. The other one, the female – it's Ronnie Shepherd."

* * *

><p>Finally, the Big Hairy Secret is out! And remember, Ronnie is NEVER naked; sometimes, she's just undressed.<p> 


	14. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Dean stared at his brother as if Sam had just announced an intention to start working in the porn industry.

"That's… huh?" He looked from Sam to the werewolves, then back again. Just to add to the general weirdness, Jimi's sister Joni came trotting casually out of the trees, making a beeline for Sam, tail wagging, before exchanging fond greeting-growls with her brother.

"It's Ronnie," Sam repeated, "She's a werewolf. See, here's Joni."

"Sam," said Dean in a carefully controlled voice, "There are two werewolves standing in front of us. Werewolves. Right there. Therewolves. You remember werewolves, supernatural fuglies that maul people and kill them and make other werewolves if victims survive the bite? Those werewolves. Old North werewolves. Big, hairy, needing-to-be-ganked werewolves. Sam, why are we not shooting the werewolves?" He paused. "And what's that one doing?"

"It's, er, sniffing Ronnie," Sam said, as the large male monster did exactly that again.

Dean lifted his gun. "That's impossible," he said firmly, "She's a dick, but she's a Hunter. Like us. Hunters. You know, people who go around ganking werewolves, and hey, look, here are some we prepared earlier…"

"Dean!" hissed Sam, "It's Ronnie! Look at the scar! Look at the tattoos!"

The smaller wolf whuffed quietly, looked Dean in the eye, and stuck out its tongue.

"Sam," said Dean, "That werewolf just blew a raspberry at me."

"I'm telling you, it's Ronnie!" exclaimed Sam in exasperation, "Ronnie," he turned to the small wolf, "Can you, I dunno, show him? Howl in an accent, or something? Bark once for 'You're a jerk, Dean' and twice for 'You're a dick, Dean'?"

The wolf appeared to consider this, then…

She changed.

It happened quickly, more quickly that the CGI effect either of them would have expected. One moment she stood, a paw on the male's chest, the next she stood… with a hand on the male's chest.

"Woof," she said. "And, woof woof. You're daft as well as blind, aren't you, Dean?"

"You…" he breathed, staring in utter disbelief, "It's… you."

"Er, I didn't mean…" Sam dropped his eyes, face turning red. "You know, I didn't mean shift, and stand there, um, you know…"

"Sam, I am not naked," she told him sternly, "I am NEVER naked. Right now, I just don't have any clothes on. It would be best if you two just quietly got back into your car," she went on in a quiet voice, "And I'll take White Fang here home, and see him locked in again. Buggered if I know how he got out."

"It was you," Sam said, still averting his eyes, "You told him what he was. You locked him up."

"The important thing is, he knows, and he wants to control it," she said. "Now, just back up until you get to your car…"

The male lifted his head, and growled dangerously. Ronnie whuffed gently to him.

"What the…? Er, Dean," Sam began, seeing the problem immediately, "Dean, stop staring like that at the…undressed lady werewolf. The, er, gentleman werewolf doesn't like it."

"Hmmmm? What? I wasn't staring!" Dean denied it.

"It's okay, Sam," Ronnie said pleasantly, "He's just checking to see whether my balls really are bigger than his, and wishing he had guns like this. Don't worry, little boy, when you grow up, one day, the hormone fairy will visit and you'll start growing hair in funny places…"

"Let's just back up to the car, okay?" Sam broke in.

"How are you going to get him back home?" asked Dean, giving her his best 'This Is Not Over' glare.

"Same way any woman gets a man to follow her – grab him by the libido, and the rest of him will follow," she smiled humourlessly. "Meet me there, Dave and Phil – looking real good for a dead black bloke, there. There's something I'd like to discuss with you." She sort of shrugged, and changed again, once more the smaller wolf.

Once the Winchesters were in the Impala, she whuffed again to the male, who seemed to be intently fixated on her scent. She dropped to all fours, and sauntered to the edge of the embankment, looking back over her shoulder and uttering a high-pitched bark. The male was at her side in a single bound. She butted playfully under his muzzle with her head, and leapt away. He followed her, with Joni tailing them both, barking happily.

Sam let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Well," he said finally, "Well, that was… interesting."

"Oh, yeah, extremely interesting," Dean nodded vigorously, "And educational, and enlightening, and informative. For example, tonight, I learned that Ronnie Shepherd is a werewolf. A werewolf! Just fancy that! Who'da thunk it? Whoever would have suspected it? I'm completely surprised, amazed, and astonished. What about you, Sam? Are you completely surprised, amazed, and astonished? No, wait a minute, you're not, because… you knew!" Dean's tone was angry. "You knew, Sam, you damned well knew that woman is a fugly, and you didn't tell me! How long have you known that Madam Furball was a fucking fugly, and why the hell did you not think it worth mentioning before now?"

"She told me when we first contacted her for help with the Old North wolf we dealt with when Jimi got bitten," Sam answered just as hotly, "And I didn't tell you because I knew how you'd react, just like this! Mr shoot first and ask questions afterwards!"

"I suppose Bobby knows too, huh?" Dean asked sourly.

"Yeah, he's known her and the Big Hairy Secret for years. In case you didn't notice, she came to save our sorry asses."

"If we ganked him, there wouldn't be any need to save anyone's sorry ass," Dean griped.

"You heard her – he knows what he is, and he wants to control it, keep himself safe," Sam argued. "It's like, it's like Lenore. She knew what she was, and she took a conscious decision not to let herself hurt anyone. Maybe Ronnie can teach him to control it."

"Speaking of which, how does she control it?" Dean wondered out loud. "It's the full moon, but she can shift back and forth if she wants to? Can she do it any time?"

"I think so," Sam replied, "You can ask her yourself. She said she wanted to discuss something. So, head for his place." He glared at Dean. "I told you those names were a bad idea," he scowled.

"Bite me, bitch."

"I dare you to say that to Ronnie, jerk."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_It was so much less complicated for the wolf.__ She could see, she could smell, she could feel his intent. It would be some time before he gained control of his thought and consciousness in wolf form, if he ever did. Right now, everything about him broadcast a sort of besottedness on a megawatt scale, in simple and honest terms, bereft of any pretence or social filtering._

_Affection. Den with me. Den with me, strong, beautiful bitch._

_Her own head was swimming with the overwhelming nearness of him, his scent, his solid and reassuring presence…_

_She butted at his chin. Affection. Affection. Run with me._

_He followed her, panting his happiness. Joni barked eagerly, running with them. My Pack! My Pack!_

_Join my Pack, he whuffed, playfully nipping at the dog's tail, Join my Pack. Be my Pack. Den with me._

_My Pack! Joni yipped, and leaped to grab at the thick fur of his ruff, My Pack! Play!_

_The male wolf good-naturedly rolled over, exchanging play-growls with the dog. Play!_

_Joni chased her own tail in excitement. Play! She darted in for another nip, as he cuffed gently at her. We are strong, we are happy! Play!_

_Enough, she barked, but not too harshly, Follow now. Run with me. Follow._

_She headed for the house, pausing occasionally as Joni and Andrew stopped for another exchange of fond sniffs, or a playful wrestle, gently but insistently urging them on._

_She noted the open front door when they arrived, and the strange scent. Not completely strange, though, she'd encountered it before, she just couldn't remember where. All she knew was, her hackles were rising of their own accord._

_Threat? Intruder? Andrew was at her side, growling protectively. Threat? I will protect you. Den with me._

_No threat, she reassured him, unable to keep herself from licking fondly at his muzzle, There is safety in your Den. Safety. Follow me. Safety._

As soon as she had him locked back in the basement, Joni walked straight through the door, and she heard their playful wrestling continue…

She smiled to herself. They'd keep each other occupied. Meanwhile she'd get dressed, and think about where she knew that foreign scent from, while she waited for the Winchesters.

It came to her as she pulled her boots back on…

She let out such a snarl of rage that Joni came running back out of the basement, hellteeth bristling and looking for the threat, while Andrew roared in anger and threw himself against the other side of the door.

She calmed herself, patted Joni, and barked reassurance to Andrew through the door. All of a sudden, a number of things made sense.

All she had to do now was to decide whether she would shoot the Winchesters, or let Andrew out and join him in tearing them limb from limb.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

When they knocked on the door, Ronnie answered it. Sam nearly stepped back in the face of the sheer anger she was projecting. Dean didn't notice, possibly because he was still bristling with his own.

"Hi there, Ronnie," he smirked, "Or should that be Rinnie? Rin Tin Tin? You are just full of surprises aren't you. Anything else you'd like to tell us while we're sharing small details, like species?"

"Hmmmm, not really," she replied casually, "Oh, one thing, I've decided not to shoot you, or tear your head off, I'm going to use a blunt knife to gut you like the pig you are."

"What?" Sam yelped in disbelief. "Dude! And dude… ette. Calm down! We're all adults here, can we try to talk about this like rational people?"

"Stay out of this, Sam!" snapped Dean.

"Patience, Sam, I'll pull your intenstines out through your navel once I'm done with your brother," Ronnie told him, "But as older brother, Dean gets certain privileges, like dying first…"

"STOP IT!" shouted Sam, "Both of you, stop it right now! Before I bang your heads together!"

"Why didn't you tell me you were a werewolf, and why are you protecting one now?" Dean demanded angrily.

"What the fuck possessed you to work for Alex Croydon?" Ronnie practically shrieked back.

"ENOUGH!" yelled Sam, "Or I really will… what?" he stared at the angry woman glaring up at him.

"I'm surprised at you, at least, Sam," she went on less stridently, "Does Bobby know who you're working for?"

"What the… how do you know about Croydon?" asked Dean, as bewildered as Sam.

"Oh, his fingerprints are all over this, don't deny it," she went on, "I watched Andrew lock himself in. I showed him the key-on-the-string trick. The house was locked. But somehow, the basement door was mysteriously unlocked – from the outside. Somebody let him out, and left the front door open for him. I saw it happen." She glared again. "Someone broke in through a back window. Somebody wanted Andrew to escape. And that somebody is a man named Burke. The house reeks of him."

"Who's Burke?" asked Sam.

"I don't know his first name. I don't know if he even has one. He's one of Croydon's long-time pals, and 'business partners'," she sneered, "I've run into him before. Or more correctly, he ran into me," she clarified a bit smugly. She eyed the Winchesters. "So, Burke lets him out, and you're lying in wait with dart pistols. How much did Croydon offer you for him?" Her voice was hard. "He's a good one, he'll bring in a six-figure sum, if that prick can pull it off. Pull it off, ha ha, I make the funny. How I amuse myself. Does Bobby know you're doing the dirty work for that scumbag? He doesn't, does he? If he knew, he'd have shot you himself, or at least given you a good slappping."

"Ronnie, back up a bit, you're not making any sense," Dean calmed down in the face of confusion. "Yeah, we're doing a job for Alex Croydon. Do you know him?"

"Oh, yeah, we've met," she growled, "I should've gutted him, and Burke, while I had the chance." She stared incredulously. "And you two are perfectly all right with that, are you?" she asked. "I don't believe it."

"We needed money, " Dean told her, "My Baby was falling apart, we needed money to fix her. We got a job with this guy, Croydon, and he told us he wanted a werewolf alive. We darted one here for him last month, some old guy, but it got away after we'd handed it over…"

"And it didn't occur to you to go after it?" she asked. "It didn't occur to you to make sure that it wasn't on the loose?"

"We didn't know!" interjected Sam, "We didn't know until a couple of weeks later, when Sam was doing some research, and he found out about the attack on this Andrew Jaeger guy; I called Croydon, asked him if it had all gone to plan at his end, because another guy had been attacked, and he told us it had escaped, and I told him it had bitten some guy who was still in hospital…"

"And here you are, after the survivor, the second wolf." She narrowed her eyes. "You had a rogue werewolf, you caught it, you handed it over to that butcher, and it got away. It got away, it bit Andrew, and then you, you, you sooled Croydon and his henchmen onto him. And _you…_ you _are _his bloody henchmen!" She snorted a humourless laugh. "And here, I've been blaming myself for not being quick enough to save him, and you chuckleheads had the wolf, and you let it go! You handed it over to some guy you don't even know! Oh, well done, Team Winchester, fucking well done indeed. I hope it was worth it, I hope you got paid," she snarled, "Because I'm damned if I'll stand here and let you take a decent guy to a, a, a fucking sadist like Croydon to be turned into a coat for some moron with more money than humanity!" Her voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "If I didn't think it would kill Bobby," she rumbled, smiling viciously, "I'd slot the two of you here and now. You – miserable – bastards."

"Ronnie, I'm sorry," Dean started, "You're probably right, in hindsight, we should've ridden along and made sure Croydon got the teeth, then killed it…"

"Teeth?" she looked at him in confusion, then understanding dawned. "My God," she said under her breath, "My God, is that what he told you? He wants the _teeth_?"

"Yeah, worth money, he said," Sam explained, "He takes the teeth while they're out cold, then shoots them before they wake up… what?" He stopped. "Did you say something about a coat?"

Ronnie looked from one brother to the other. "Okay," she said, "Okay, so he lied to you. Figures. He probably thought that if he told you what he wanted to do, you wouldn't help him, and Hunters who can dart an Old North wolf without getting themselves killed first are few and far between. The smart ones won't even try it." She glared at Sam. "You know, for a smart guy, you can be pretty dumb," she told him, "Did it occur to you to do a bit of digging as to how much bits of werewolf are worth?"

"Well, no," admitted Sam.

She let out a long breath. "Alex Croydon takes Old North werewolves alive for their pelts," she told them. "Skinning a werewolf is tricky. Very tricky. You can't kill it, because it will revert back to its human form. So, you have to skin it while it's alive. And you have to keep it alive until you finish… peeling it. Otherwise, it reverts, and you have half a pelt, which is worthless. You need the whole thing for the full occult mojo. And the full price."

The Winchesters stared at her in horror.

"He… he uses a sedative," stuttered Sam. "He told us, it's a veterinary sedative, and some other stuff in there, he puts them to sleep…"

"To catch them, yes," agreed Ronnie, "Ketamine. The problem is, once you start skinning an animal alive, its physiological responses go haywire. It starts bleeding copiously, its heart rhythm goes nuts, its blood pressure hits the floor. You can't give it any more sedative after that, or you'll kill it. No, boys and girls, it has to be done while the wolf is alive. And kicking. Well, presumably he has to restrain them. But alive and howling, at least."

She watched their faces drain of colour.

"It's a long, slow process," she went on, "It takes hours. It can take all night. You have to be so careful. You can't damage the pelt, or it's worthless. Cut too deep, and the wolf dies. Too shallow, and the skin is damaged. I believe the hind legs are the trickiest, because you have to release each one to do it, and of course the thing is still screaming and struggling." She shrugged. "Still, so long as you get paid for your efforts."

"Ronnie, we didn't know," Dean told her, "Really, we didn't know…"

"How do you know this?" Sam asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

"Because they tried to skin me," she told them. "A long time ago. As you can see, they didn't succeed. My right arm still aches when the wind blow cold, though. That was Burke. With a crowbar. Why don't you ask your brand new best friend Alex how he got that scar, hmmm? Remind you of anybody else you know?" She smiled serenely. "So, are you two clueless twits going to turn around and fuck off, or am I going to have to break Bobby's heart after all?"

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "Christ," he muttered, "We'll tell Croydon we're throwing in the job," he said, "We don't need the money that badly. We don't need anything that badly. I'm sorry, Sam," he said plaintively, "I should've listened to you."

"I told you he was creepy," snarked Sam, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Ronnie, I promise you, we will never work for Croydon again, or anyone we think might be associated with him," Dean assured her. "Sam wasn't happy about it from the get-go."

"Next time, listen to him, Pinky," she huffed. "Fuck me, what a total clusterfuck." She looked at her watch. "Andrew will be four-legged for a few hours yet," she told them, "I'm going to put on some coffee. You want some?"

"Maybe we should go," suggested Dean, "Go find Croydon, tell him to shove his job and his money up his ass..."

"Be careful how you do that," Ronnie cautioned him, "He can be so charming on the outside, but don't cross him lightly. He won't like it. He'll gut you as soon as look at you, if he thinks you're screwing him over."

"We'll be careful," Sam said. "Actually, I could use some coffee. With a little extra something."

"I think we're possibly persona non grata here, Sam," Dean tried to be tactful.

"Fine, off you go, then," said Ronnie airily, "I'll just have more pie to myself."

Dean's head nearly fell off, it swivelled that hard. "There's pie?" he asked in a hopeful tone.

"There's pie," she confirmed. "But, if you want to leave…"

"I think I could force myself to stay for pie," Dean chirped. "In the interests of repairing friendly relations."

"He's such a selfless individual," observed Sam wryly.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Someone else was making observations, too. Burke put down the binoculars, and pulled his phone out.

"Croydon. Yeah, I let the wolf out, but you're not going to believe what happened after that…"


	15. Chapter 12

Oh, Cas, is this damned story ever going to end? ? ? Sorry for the delays, folks, but that ghastly thing called Real Life keeps getting in the way. It scares the plot bunnies away, sometimes. But of course, the Denizens are always there to SEND ME MORE. You people are REMORSELESS...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

"So, what did he say?" asked Sam, emerging from the bathroom.

"Sounded cool with it," Dean told him, closing his phone, "I told him that the wolf got out, but got away from us, we had trouble tracking him, but he stayed local, and headed back for his house when we spooked him with the dog." He pulled his boots off. "I also told him that we would unfortunately not be able to finish the job for him, and we'd drop his pistols off tomorrow. Well, later today."

"How did he react?" Sam queried.

"Said it was a shame, he was disappointed, but thanked us for our time, and said we could call him again any time if we wanted to take another job," Dean answered. "Very reasonable and laid back. Which, given what Ronnie told us, makes me even more happy to get the hell away from him and his job." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Sam, you were right," he admitted. "Next time you decide something makes you feel hinky, we'll both pay attention."

"Well, you got the car fixed," Sam pointed out, "And with the remainder, I vote for fixing the air con."

"I was thinking the radio was more important," Dean commented, yawning hugely. "You can always roll a window down if you're getting too hot. As a bonus, it lets your disgusting bodily effluence out. Why would I fix the air con if it's going to encourage you to pollute and contaminate my Baby?"

"Jerk," humphed Sam, turning out the bedside light and sliding into his bed.

"Bitch," grinned Dean, doing the same.

Jimi circled a couple of times then flopped down onto his blanket with a huge, contented sigh. He was soon snoring gently.

"You were looking at her, weren't you?" said Sam into the darkness.

"Wha'?" Dean had started to doze.

"Ronnie. You were looking at her," Sam repeated.

"Well, yeah, I was looking at her. You told me to look at her tattoos, remember?"

"No", pressed Sam relentlessly, "You were _looking_ looking at her. Weren't you? That little piece of you that is Forever Dean was _looking_ looking. Andrew saw you do it."

"I was not! I wasn't going to take my eyes off two damned werewolves! I was keeping an eye on both of them!" Dean insisted.

"Of course you were," cooed Sam infuriatingly. "Fine figure of a woman", he went on, relentlessly, "Strapping. Not some anorexic, helplessly pretty, giggling, doe-eyed type. Alpha female. More of a Valkyrie type. She has the plait, all she needs is the horned helmet. You like it when women play dress-ups, don't you? Is that what you were thinking about?"

"Oh, puh-lease, Sammy, I am so not the toyboy type…"

Sam smelt blood in the water. "Yeah, you were thinking about it. Her grabbing you, throwing you over one shoulder, and dragging you off to her longhouse…"

"Sam…"

"…Where you'd struggle helplessly in her iron grip amongst the bearskins on the floor…"

"Sam…"

"…You know, if it ever happened, it might be best just to let her have her way, sate her lust, then try to escape while she's asleep…"

Dean tried to change the subject. "I mean, how the hell did she learn to do that? She has control of the shapeshift, and during the full moon? I didn't know that was even possible."

No good – Sam was on a roll. "It's not like she hasn't seen you naked, after all," his baby brother positively leered. "And despite the cranky exterior, I don't think she'd actually hurt you. Unless you wanted her to, of course…"

The part of him that was Forever Dean leered back inside his head. _No, I haven't thought about those arms pinning me against the wall, not once for at least five minutes…_

"I bet she can make at least one of those dog tatts dance..."

"SHUT UP SAMANTHA! You're grossing me out here, bitch! I'm going to have nightmares."

Sam started doing a very bad falsetto Steve Irwin impression. "Croikey, Dean, you've gort a noice aaaaarse. Wanna feel me tatts?"

"Sam, shut up and go to sleep, or I swear I will find a stingray and stab you with it."

"Yeah, you were looking." Dean could hear the smirk on his brother's face.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Ronnie was dozing on the sofa when Andrew let himself out of the basement, but Joni offered him a cheerful yap of greeting, which startled her Alpha awake.

"I've put some coffee on," he told her. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

"Yeah, well, there were… unexpected developments last night," she said carefully, yawning.

"I got out," he mentioned casually. "Hungry?"

"Yeah, and yeah," she replied. "Sort of. You didn't get out, you were let out."

"Over a large breakfast, she filled him in on Croydon's plans to take him alive, and why.

"Sounds like a thoroughly unpleasant individual," ruminated Andrew, "I would very much like to poke him repeatedly with a pointy stick, and I've never even met him."

"Pray that you don't, and don't talk with your mouth full," she said, "Now he knows you're a wolf, you're fair game. They'll try again. You'd be worth the trouble, and Croydon would have no qualms about sending in a couple of guys to die if it means he gets his hands on a specimen like you."

"Gee, that makes me feel special," snorted Andrew.

"I'm serious," she snapped, "He is an A-grade bastard who will peel you for the money. It would be better, safer, if you could disappear, at least for a couple of days. I know a couple of places where…"

"Fuck that," he cut her off, "This is my home, my turf. I aint going anywhere."

Ronnie couldn't help smiling a little. "If someone's absolutely determined to get in while you've locked yourself in the basement, they will. Croydon will have other gofers besides the Winchesters. Their withdrawal will put a hitch in his plans, but he'll figure something out."

"Well, I might just have to prepare a few little… deterrents for them," he mused, smiling sunnily. "I happen to have a certain amount of experience with, shall we call them, improvised inconveniences. I can make it damned difficult to extract me without getting... thoroughly inconvenienced. I just gotta make myself more trouble than I'm worth." He looked thoughtful. "How much am I worth, anyway?" he asked. "Peeled."

"Oh, I'd say at least 250 grand," she told him, "Like I said, you're a big boy. In your prime. Impressive. You scared the bejesus out of Dean Winchester." She regarded him carefully.

"How much do you remember?" she asked cautiously.

"Not much distinctly. Details are fuzzy. I got out, and I nearly did something unforgiveable. But then…" he turned to face her with a heart-melting smile. "Something much more interesting came along."

She was silent, not daring to speak.

"So," he went on casually, "How long ago?"

"A while," she admitted. "I was seventeen when I was bitten. The week before my eighteenth birthday."

"Tough break," he remarked.

"Yeah," she replied distractedly.

"Do all werewolves learn to control themselves like you did?" he asked.

"No," she answered, "It was something I figured out. I had an inside advantage; my Dad had been training me up for the Hunt since I was seven, so I knew what I was, I knew what was happening, and I had somewhere to start. Admittedly, it was a long shot, a combination of utter desperation and mind-numbingly good luck that it actually worked."

"So, how did you do it?" he asked.

She remained silent for a long moment. "I've never told anyone," she informed him, "Except Bobby Singer, the bloke I told you about, because it's safe with him..." She looked hard at Andrew, then continued. "Silver. I used silver." She fished in her jacket, and pulled out a small black velvet pouch, upending it onto the table. A silver chain necklace fell out. Andrew felt a snarl form on his face as the acrid scent reached him. "It was a present, from my sisters," she said softly, "For my eighteenth birthday. They were going to give it to me… I figured that if anything was going to work, silver would do it. A werewolf wounded or killed with silver reverts to human, so I wondered if a werewolf wearing silver could stay human and not change…"

He looked at her in alarm. "It burns," he said, incredulously, "It hurts like hell. I experimented with the picture frame after you… tried to tell me. It really, really hurts. It feels like a fucking blow-torch."

"I know." Her tone was hollow. "But I was desperate. I was hysterically desperate. The second full moon, when I felt the shapeshift coming on, I wrapped this around my arm after I locked myself in." She rolled back her sleeve to reveal a thick band of keloid scarring on her right arm, above her wrist. "I thought I was going to die, it was that fucking painful, but somehow, it worked. I didn't change. So I practised with it. I learned to ignore it. I found out from Bobby that other wolves have tried it, but it doesn't always work. I guess you just have to be desperate enough. Once I could do that, I wondered if I could do it the other way around. Apparently, it's possible," she shrugged.

"Apparently." He looked intently at her, took a deep breath, and plunged on. "Ronnie, I've never really been much good at this whole boy-meets-girl thing," he told her a bit wistfully, "It's so much… simpler for the wolf." He smiled again. "I know you're pretty much a nomad," he went on, "But I've been trying to work up the courage to ask you to stick around for a little while. I was trying to think of a way to advertise my honourable intent, but do it subtly. I guess I did that last night. Except without the subtle."

"Yeah, you did," she agreed.

"I can see it could have its advantages," he mused, "It would cut out all that dancing and dodging around it, I like her, does she like me, how do I tell her I like her, how do I figure out if she likes me. All that. I'm useless at it. We might have gotten off to a bit of a wobbly start, what with me telling you to fuck off and everything, but... I have been kind of hoping you might stick around for a little while. Maybe even let me apologise properly."

Ronnie stared into her coffee for what seemed like an age.

"Andrew," she began slowly, "You are a really nice guy. You're decent, and polite, and funny, and, and, you're just a really nice guy."

His face fell. "This sounds like a brush-off speech," he said in a small, sad voice.

"What? No! No! I mean, I don't want to sound I'm giving you the brush-off!" she cut in anxiously. "What I'm trying to say is, look, what I do, it's… it's not a part of the real world, where normal people live…"

"I'm not normal people anymore," he said in that small, sad voice.

"But you could be!" she told him emphatically, "You can be bloody close! Look, you really are a nice guy. If I thought it was possible… I'd probably consider it, at least, but… Oh, crap, this sucks," she sighed again. "Look, if you're determined that you won't move, I'll stick around for a couple more days, help you get a handle on the whole wolf thing, and help you avoid becoming a profitable rug for Croydon, but… after that, I'll have to get going." She smiled. "I'm sorry, Andrew, I really am. But I'm not going to lead you on, or make any sort of offer or promise when I can't follow through."

The sadness in his eyes made her heart sink.

"If I give you my number, will you call me, occasionally?" he asked, apparently resigned. "Drop in to visit, if you're passing through?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I will," she assured him. She eyed the dull silver chain thoughtfully, then carefully scooped it back into its pouch with a deftness of long practice. "Here," she pushed it towards him, giving him a small smile. "If you decide to, you can use this to try. I don't need it."

"Ronnie, I can't take this, this was for you, from your sisters…"

"Yes you can," she argued, "I can't see you using it to rob banks, or anything. I'd like you to have it."

After a moment, he picked up the small pouch and tucked it into a pocket.

"Thank you. I'll miss Joni," he sighed. Hearing her name, the dog popped her head out from under the table. "Hey there, girl," he scratched her ears, "You want more bacon?"

"What do you mean, 'more bacon'?" demanded Ronnie. "Have you been feeding her bacon under the table?"

"She's hungry too," Andrew pouted defensively, handing over the rasher to Joni.

"Oh, God, do I have to go Alpha on your arses?" she sighed.

"I dunno, what does that involve?" asked Andrew, eating another piece of bacon himself. "Growling at us?"

"That, and putting my teeth on your neck and throwing you to the ground," she explained.

"Flirt." Andrew stood up, heading for the stove. "I'm still hungry. You want more?"

"Yesterday, you were adamant that you weren't hungry afterwards," she observed.

"Yeah, well," he grinned ruefully, "A broken heart mends easier than a ruined digestion. Maybe I'll feed more to Joni, see if you'll make good on that threat."

"If I did, you wouldn't enjoy it," she informed him tersely.

"Maybe I'm just willing to take what I can get," he sighed dramatically, pointedly letting the dog take the wrapping.

"Caveman."

"Prissy."

"Rowf!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

After Ronnie left to head back to her motel, Andrew headed into town – the cupboard was getting bare. The cupboard, and the refrigerator. She hadn't been kidding about eating more.

He was disappointed. He'd admit it to himself, disappointed. And quietly sad. After what he'd seen, what he'd felt her 'saying' while they were both shapeshifted, he'd thought he might really like to get to know her better... the feeling of running as a pack was not something he'd forget in a hurry. He smiled a little to himself. Her friendship was better than nothing, and she had promised to stay in touch...

Andrew was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that when a voice he didn't know said "Hey, Andrew," behind him, he stopped and turned without thinking.

"Yeah?" The man who'd spoken was unkempt, with several days of beard on his face. "Er, can I help you?"

"Yeah," the untidy man smiled unpleasantly, "Look at me while my assistant gets behind you."

His mother had often accused him of being bone-headed, which might have been why the blow from the shotgun butt didn't actually break anything, but he was out before he hit the ground.

Burke pulled his phone out as the two other men manhandled Andrew into the van. "One down, two to go," he smirked without pre-amble.

"I have always appreciated your efficiency," laughed Croydon on the other end of the line, "But all we need to do is wait. The other two are coming to us."

* * *

><p>Oh noes! Winchesters In Peril dead ahead! How imperilled do you want them? We know that Leahelisabeth loves her some Sammy In Peril... what about Dean? And what sort of peril are we talking here? Do you like them covered in blood? Getting wounded? Getting tied up? Getting drunk? Getting drugged? Getting dunked in custard? The bunnies have gone into a huddle, and can't decide whose turn it is. Feel free to pick one and drop-kick it in this direction. Promise I'll write the next chapter as soon as I can.<p>

Reviews are the Dancing Tattoos on the Pecs of Life!


	16. Chapter 13

_Are your Winchesters imperilled? Are they shirtless? Are they bleeding?_  
><em>We know exactly just what type of cleaning they'll be needing,<em>  
><em>Call DDD&amp;SSS to clean and tend their sore bits,<em>  
><em>We're local and we're prompt and we will wear our nurse's outfits.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

"You think he can do it?" Dean asked.

"If anyone can teach him, Ronnie can," Sam answered. "At the very least, she can make sure he keeps himself locked away for the full moon."

"And if he does get out, she'll get naked, and chase him down," grinned Dean.

"Are you jealous? About the having naked women chasing after you thing?" Sam wanted to know.

"Well, it's kinda hot, the idea of being pursued by naked women," Dean grinned even more widely, "And in fact, on a couple of occasions, I have been – there was this one girl in California, it was summer, and…"

"Hey!" yelped Sam, throwing Dean Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk).

"Anyway, I wasn't looking at her nearly the way he was. I think there's something there, you know."

"I don't know if Ronnie is the type to settle down, play happy families, or happy packs, or whatever werewolves do," Sam opined. "He must be something else, though, for her not to tear him to pieces. She's done that with males before. Joni certainly likes him."

"It might make her less cranky. And she can make pie. That's halfway to a blissful relationship. It doesn't even have to be a relationship. She needs to get laid, Sam."

"And how the hell could that possibly be any of your business?" asked Sam icily.

"Well, it's true," Dean said breezily. "Nobody, NOBODY, should make it to the big 4-0 without getting laid. Hell, nobody should make it to the big 4-0 without even being kissed. 'Taint right, bro. No wonder she's so damned cranky. I'm just sayin'." Dean looked thoughtful. "You think the Big Bad Wolf knows about that?"

"I don't think it's anybody else's business, unless she tells them," Sam sniffed, "And she only told us so we could try to take that curse off you."

"Do werewolves do it doggy style?" Dean wondered aloud, "Or face-to-face? 'Cause they're humanoid, but they're wolves at the same time…"

"Jesus, Dean, what is it with you and your obsession with other people needing to get laid?" demanded Sam, "You thinking of quitting Hunting, and taking up the good work that Dr Ruth started?"

"Hmmmm, that would be a worthwhile and honourable use of my considerable experience and awesome talents," commented Dean. "I could have a syndicated radio show. Dr Dean's 'You Need To Get Laid'. Or a TV talk show. I could have a regular guest spot on Dr Phil's show. No, screw that, Dr Phil can have a guest spot on _my_ show." He sighed heavily. "It'll never work, though, if I can't even get my little brother laid. How can I help the sex-deprived of America if I can't even get you laid? I'll have no credibility." He looked at Sam appraisingly. "Maybe you could be my Project Of The Week," he mused, "Where I point out what the problem is, then map out a strategy for you, then we call for volunteers from the audience, and…"

"Dean!" snapped Sam, "Shut! Up! About! Getting! Laid!"

"See, that's a large part of the problem right there," declared Dean, "If you can't even bear to hear people talk about it, how can you do it? Dr Dean prescribes you saying the word 'sex' out loud, several times, several times a day. Come on, say it with me Sammy, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex…"

"I think I'm getting a headache," groaned Sam.

By the time they arrived at the small boarded up office to drop off the dart pistols, Dean had chanted his way through most of the euphemisms for sex that he knew, and Sam was feeling fratricidal.

"Now, you just keep saying 'horizontal tango' while I go drop these in," grinned Dean, getting out of the car.

"I am not letting you go in there alone," Sam said firmly, "Not after what Ronnie told us."

"It'll be fine," Dean insisted, "I drop these off, tell him we're sorry, we head off to our next job."

"Forget it," scowled Sam, following Dean.

Croydon was sorting through a box of items when they made their way inside.

"Hey, Alex," said Dean, "These are yours."

"Ah, Dean and Sam!' smiled Croydon. "Good to see you." His face looked regretful. "A shame the job didn't work out last night. Are you sure you won't reconsider, stay and have another try for it tonight?"

"No, we really can't," Dean told him, "Something's come up."

"I am sorry to hear that," Croydon shook his head. "Because I think we could really have done good business together." He studied them carefully. "Hmmm, how tall are you, Sam?" he asked casually, "Six-three, six-four? You'd be, what, two hundred and something?"

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Sam bristled.

"Hmm? Oh, it's just an interest I take," Croydon grinned at him, "It's always interested me, the way there's not necessarily a direct correlation between a guy's build, and the wolf he becomes. But I got a feeling about you. Don't damage that one," he said curtly to the wall behind them.

They heard the distinct click of a cocking firearm.

"Now, Burke here," Croydon went on as they raised their hands, "Burke is really not a very nice guy. He's short-tempered, his personal hygiene leaves something to be desired, he has the morals of a crack dealer, he's quite blasé about hurting people, and he has absolutely no sense of humour whatsover. But there's still something about him I don't like…" he grinned unpleasantly. "I really don't know why I keep him around."

"Could be because I get the job done," suggested the unkempt man with the gun. "And I've never tried to bullshit you."

"Yeah, I guess that's it," Croydon nodded. "I really don't like it when people try to bullshit me. It's an insult. Worse, it gets in the way of business. I don't know what got into you boys," he nodded to the Winchesters, "But from what Burke tells me, that wolf was a monster. Would've brought me a very good price indeed. Would've gotten you two a bonus."

"Speaking of bullshitting," growled Dean, "You did actually forget to mention that it's not just teeth you're after."

"Oh, that," Croydon waved a hand dismissively, "I do actually take the teeth, if I have the opportunity, but they're pocket change compared to a pelt. When did you get squeamish, anyway?"

"You sick fuck," glowered Sam, "You sick, sadistic fuck, skinning them alive, where the hell do you get off?"

"They're monsters, Sam," Croydon snapped, "Monsters. Abominations. You're Hunters. It's your job to kill them before they kill people."

"It's our job to kill them, not torture and mutilate them!" Dean snapped back, "You're right, Croydon, you're totally right, if we'd known what you planned to do, we'd have told you to shove your job up your fat perverted ass, you sonofabitch."

Croydon sighed heavily. "It's the law of supply and demand," he said, as if explaining something very simple to children, "It's just business. How does it matter how they die? The important thing is that they end up dead. If I can make a profit out of it, that's a bonus."

"It matters!" Sam burst out, "This is the sort of thing that demons do! You claim to be a Hunter; you're no better than the things we Hunt!"

"A conscience can be a terrible burden," Croydon tutted sympathetically, "And much as I'd love to discuss the moral implications of my business with you, we are working to a timeline here." He nodded to Burke, and two other men who'd joined him. "Get them out of here. And don't damage that one. Much."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Ronnie stared unseeing at the melting ice cream in front of her. Ice-cream again. She'd gone for the comfort food. It had to be a chick thing.

Andrew had made his intentions clear, on four legs, then on two. She was pretty sure she'd managed to cover her reaction from him, but she couldn't hide it from herself. He'd scared the shit out of her.

_Den with me._

(I've been trying to work up the courage to ask you to stick around for a little while.)

_Join my Pack. Be my Pack._

(I have been kind of hoping you might stick around for a little while.)

_I will protect you. Den with me._

It couldn't work. It couldn't. She didn't know how. She didn't know what to do. She had absolutely no frigging idea how the whole boy-meets-girl thing _worked_. She didn't even know _how_ to kiss a guy, for fuck's sake, and being… hoovered by a cursed Dean Winchester did _not_ count. How did people's noses not get in the way, for a start? Okay, the height difference thing might help, and head tilting, possibly – what was the convention for deciding who tilted which way? And the whole concept of tongues still sounded kind of yucky… and that was just kissing. There was… all the other stuff, too. Well, the mechanics of it were plain enough, but…

She was scarred, and ignorant, and she had no illusions about what sort of a… lady friend she'd make. She'd accepted that a long time ago, dismissed it as irrelevant, and worried about things that were actually important.

_Den with me, beautiful bitch._

She was too old to start trying to learn that sort of thing. What if, what if she… what if she did it wrong? What if she wasn't any good at it? He'd be disappointed. He wouldn't have even asked if he'd known what a let-down she'd be.

It was a damned shame. It was. But she was a Hunter, and it was her life, and maybe if she'd had a chance at a more normal life it would be different. Because he was a really, really nice guy. He was all those things that trashy magazines seemed to be so keen on in a man, he was fun to talk to, he was funny, his gibbering when he was flustered was actually kind of adorable, he was interesting, and if she was honest, he was kind of comfortable to be around, and be fair, as physical specimens went he was pretty well built, okay, yeah, she'd looked, so sue her…

_Her own head was swimming with the overwhelming nearness of him, his scent, his solid and reassuring presence…_

Joni's eager sniffing and brought her out of her thoughts.

_You are receptive! _the dog whuffed happily, _You will accept him!_

Ronnie stared at her dog.

Shit. The nosy little beast was right.

It couldn't hurt to stay around for a while, could it? Maybe get to know him a bit better. If nothing came of it, she'd be on her way again. All she had to do was give it a try. Somehow, find the courage to give it a try. It probably wouldn't work out, or lead to anything… unsettling.

…But what if it did?

She stood up, and threw what was left of her ice cream into a trash can. Cowardice was not attractive in anybody.

Calling up Joni, she headed back to her truck. She'd need to pick up some supplies. It was partly her fault that his refrigerator was empty, and it would be her turn to cook breakfast. And Gammer Shepherd had always said that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach.

Gammer Shepherd had also told her that the way to a man's heart was up under his ribcage, avoiding the sternum, and through his diaphragm, but it was all about context, and it would be polite to try the previous way first. Gammer Shepherd had been big on politeness.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I told you to stop twitching," said Burke, when Sam tested the ropes around his wrists again. Damn, these bastards knew what they were doing, and he wasn't going to be getting out of them any time soon. Not with Burke watching.

"You know, I'm really going to enjoy smashing your face in with something blunt," smirked Dean, "I'm going to smile while I do it. I'm going to chuckle while I do it. 'Tee hee'. Just like that."

Burke eyed him unconcernedly. "He always this mouthy?" he asked.

"Pretty much, I'm afraid," shrugged Sam, using the opportunity to squirm again.

"I said, stop twitching!" snapped the unkempt man, slamming the handle of his gun into the side of Sam's head.

"Sammy!" Dean tried to get to his brother, as Sam winced, and toppled sideways to the floor of the van.

" 'Mfine," Sam mumbled, trying to sit up again.

Dean smiled unpleasantly. "Ohhhh, you are so screwed when I get my hands on you," he hissed at Burke.

"I look forward to it," said Burke equably, "Now, hold still."

The van had been moving for about fifteen minutes, so it couldn't have gotten far, but Croydon's bumboys had taken their phones, their wallets, and every damned weapon they had, even the emergency handcuff safety pin. And doing a Houdini act with a short-tempered asshole watching for signs of wiggling was damned near impossible.

Damned near, but not completely.

He almost pulled it off, too.

Sam made another attempt to sit up again, and Burke bad-temperedly aimed a kick at him. Dean used the small distraction to push himself forward, aiming for the gun, which he was looking forward to smashing into the prick's nose repeatedly and with great gusto.

Burke pulled the trigger without hesitation. The round went into Dean's shoulder, and he flinched against the side of the van.

"Dean!" Sam started desperately trying to get upright.

"Incompetent amateur," gasped Dean between his teeth, "Can't even aim from three feet away, and can't even do a double tap."

"Suit yourself," Burke shrugged, shooting him again.

"Stop it!" shouted Sam, wincing again, as Dean toppled sideways.

"You stop it, or I'll put one in you, too," Burke told him. "Since Big-Mouth here seems to think I need to practise my double-taps."

"You're not… supposed to… damage him," Dean grated out, "Your pal Croydon… be real unhappy…"

"Hands and feet don't count," Burke shrugged, "And Alex knows I don't have a very high asshole tolerance threshold. He's very understanding that way."

"You… and your bestie… are dead if you touch him…" wheezed Dean, grabbing at his shoulder.

"Uh-huh." The van came to a halt, the back doors opened, and the two other men came in, guns drawn.

"What happened to that one?" one of them asked.

"Suffering from a bad case of Smartass Syndrome," Burke replied with a humourless grin. "Get them inside. Come on, Sam," he grabbed Sam by the arm, dragging him upright, "We got a friend to keep you company."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Andrew's truck was parked outside the store as she drove past, looking for a park. Maybe she could sneak up on him, casually announce that she had changed her mind, and was going to stay around for a bit. Did men like surprises? He'd like this one, right? What if he tried to hug her in public? People did that, didn't they? She decided she'd try hugging back. If he initiated it. She wasn't going to do that. Gammer Shepherd would call that 'forward'. At least she'd be able to ask him what he preferred for breakfast. She was going to lay down some ground rules, though, beginning with, no feeding Joni excessive amounts of bacon. And no maple syrup, that did the most extraordinary things to the animal's digestive system. Or, she'd let him try, then lock him in the basement with the dog, and demonstrate exactly how bad an idea it was…

As she passed his truck on the way to the front door, she caught a scent she wasn't prepared for.

Blood.

Detouring around the truck, she found the small trace on the blacktop of the lot. Blood. Recently shed blood. Andrew's blood. Layered with other scents.

Burke was one of them.

Joni sniffed, and growled deeply, red highlights crackling across her eyes. Ronnie battled not to let her own fangs show.

_Nobody fucks with… with my Pack._

Woman and dog headed back to their truck at a run. Ronnie wound down the window for Joni; the dog would find him much more efficiently than she could.

_Find him, _she rumbled to the dog,_ Intruders. Threat. Find him._

_I track, _panted Joni, nose sniffing, scenting the air,_ I track. I track. Intruders. Intruders. Your Mate. I track. This way!_

On the edge of the commercial area, Joni suddenly started barking urgently. _Brother! Brother!_

"What?" Ronnie was confused, but slowed down.

She was even more confused when Jimi appeared, at a determined lope, around a corner. He didn't even slow down, just leaped straight through the door as if it wasn't there, to land on the back seat next to his sister, who licked at his muzzle and ears in concern.

_My Alpha, my Second, _the big dog whined,_ My Pack is in danger._

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Imperilled Winchesters Tied Up on the Train Tracks Of Life!<p> 


	17. Chapter 14

Sorry, Leahelisabeth, no Sam-in-a-box, but will a bit of bleeding and passing out do? Also, I am disturbed that two reviewers have specifically referred to the lickability of either Winchester. Seems the Winchesterlickers never went away. I suspect they may even have infiltrated DDD&SSS. But we'll never know, because what happens in the van stays in the van...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14<strong>

Sam was not happy.

Croydon's thugs had separated him from Dean. He'd gone ballistic when they'd done that, kicking and yelling, and he'd managed a very satisfying head-butt to one of them, the asshole's nose giving a gratifying squishy sort of feel, but all it had gained him was a black eye and another whack in the head from Burke.

"Lie down and have a little nap, Sam," he suggested unpleasantly, as he shoved the younger Winchester through a door into a windowless room. Sam half staggered, half fell to the floor, his head spinning. He could taste blood, and he was pretty sure he'd have a shocking bruise down one arm from an awkward landing.

He came to again a short time later, if the pins and needles in his arm were anything to go by. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the starbursts, he forced himself to sit up, and refrain from puking...

There was something in the room with him.

He slowed his breathing, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He manoeuvred himself so that his back was to the wall; whatever it was, he was going to kick it in the face, or the nuts, or possibly both...

"Sam Winchester?" The older man grinned ruefully at him. "Or would you like me to call you Phil?"

"Andrew." Sam sighed. "You can blame my brother, he thinks up the stupid names."

"I'm guessing you ran into Croydon's goons, then?" He moved towards Sam with a rattling noise following him.

"Feels more like they ran into me," Sam winced. "What the hell's that?"

"Another damned chain," Andrew sighed, wiggling his ankle, "Only this time, there is not the remotest chance of entertaining even momentary inappropriate thoughts about it." He hunkered down beside Sam. "Let's get you out of this... you're bleeding."

"Yeah, the asshole known as Burke whacked me good a couple of times," Sam griped, "Bastard shot Dean, too, I don't know where he is."

Andrew inspected Sam's wounds. "You're going to have an impressive shiner to show for it," he predicted, "You got any symptoms of concussion? Headache, dizziness, nausea? I'm betting you know the drill."

"All of the above, plus an overwhelming desire to strangle that asshole Burke," replied Sam, rubbing his wrists, "We gotta get out of here," he went on, "I've gotta find Dean, before he does something really rash."

"You said he got shot?" Andrew frowned.

"Yeah. Twice. Shoulder. I wish Burke hadn't done that, Dean gets really angry when he gets shot, and he whines like a three year old while he's healing."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere in a hurry," Andrew humphed. He looked thoughtfully at the chain tethering him. "This is interesting," he mused.

"Huh," muttered Sam, "Interesting isn't a word I'd have chosen for the situation."

"I mean the chain," Andrew qualified, "Does it seem a bit long to you? Presumably, it's to keep me leashed once I go Big Bad Wolf, but it comes as far as the door, but not quite to the corner. Are you meant to be a high protein snack?"

Sam stood gingerly, and looked thoughtful. "I don't think so," he said slowly, "After what Croydon said." He stood in the corner, eyeing the chain. "But I do think you're supposed to bite me. If I stand here, there's a pretty good chance you can't quite get hold of me to tear me to shreds, but you can probably get a bite or two in."

Andrew considered that. "Would you shapeshift if that happened?"

"Bitten so early, first thing, at the full moon? There's a damned good chance. Provided you can't reach me to eat me first." He grinned. "You really are a big boy."

"Yeah, that's what Ronnie said," mused Andrew. He sucked in a hissing breath. "Damn. It's going to happen soon. This is what it felt like." He looked around. "There's not a damned thing to help in here." His eyes fell on the rope on the floor. "Your best bet might be to garrotte me, then see if you can use it on whoever opens the door next..."

"Not happening," Sam cut him off.

Andrew's face was hard. "Sam, think! This asshole Croydon is going to skin me alive! And you too, if you don't get shredded first. This way, at least one of us has a chance to get out! Look, I can't say I'm happy about the idea, but desperate situations call for..." his voice trailed off, and he looked calculating.

"What is it?" Sam asked, as Andrew put a hand into his pocket. He pulled out a small black pouch, and eyed it warily.

"Would you say the situation we are in is desperate?" he asked, apparently half talking to himself.

"Yeah, you're destined to be a throw-rug and so am I, if I don't get eaten alive first, I'd say that probably counts as desperate," answered Sam bemusedly.

Andrew gave him a grim smile. "Let's find out how desperate. I'll need your help with this. I'll try not to scream too much."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

They're all dead, Dean muttered to himself, awkwardly wiggling out of his plaid shirt and tearing at the sleeve with his teeth to fashion a makeshift dressing, starting with Burke, no, ending with Burke, he was going to kill them all, and save the best until last, and if they'd touched Sam, he was going to do it with his bare hands, and they'd die begging to be thrown to the werewolf instead...

He let out a frustrated bark of pain and anger. His brother was hurt. His brother was werewolf chow – if he was lucky. If he wasn't lucky, his brother would get bitten, and Dean would be the werewolf chow to keep Sam occupied while they skinned Andrew. There would only be enough time to skin two wolves, Burke had explained matter-of-factly, before the moon dropped too far, and they'd be pushed for time as it was.

He looked around the small dank room again for anything he could use as a weapon, and came up with nothing. Again. Grimly, he started to fashion what was left of his shirt into a makeshift noose – he'd have to be quick, but they thought he was unarmed. He grinned to himself; they'd never seen what he could do with a boot as a club...

He was about to start undoing the laces when a quiet humph from behind him got his attention.

Jimi slunk through the wall, eyes crackling red, holding something bundled in his mouth.

"J-Man!" Dean whispered happily to the dog. Inside the dirty shop rag was a gun, a knife, and a phone. It was buzzing silently with a text.

_**Burke & pals grabbed Andrew Jimi found me WTF you 2 ok?**_

Awkwardly, he messaged back.

_**Separated. Sam taken 2 Andrew 2 get bit. I'm chow. Sam hit, I'm shot. Locked in. Get S&A out.**_

The phone buzzed again.

_**How bad u?**_

_**I'll live**_ he sent back. _**Find S&A.**_

_**Joni's on it**_ came back. _**Hang tight.**_

"Easy for you to say," he muttered, wincing – his shoulder damned well hurt. Why was it always the trick shoulder? If he lived to be an old man, it was going to give him hell in cold weather...

His thoughts were disrupted when he heard a long, wailing howl, followed by a savage snarling, and a desperate human scream.

Sam.

"Sam!" he shouted, pulling himself up, and pounding on the door. "Sam! Open this door, you fucking assholes!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Andrew, maybe this isn't a good idea," said Sam hesitantly, "This is really..."

"DO IT!" the older man hissed through clenched teeth, "Don't stop, just do it!"

As quickly as he could, Sam finished wrapping the silver chain around Andrew's forearm and fastened it.

Andrew gasped, and broke out in a sweat as he slid down the wall. "Oh, fuck me, shitshitshitshitshitshit," he panted, "Oh Christ that fucking hurts..."

Sam looked away from the chain, and tried not to think that he could hear the skin sizzling under it. "That looks really painful," he offered.

"Just a bit," Andrew wheezed, clumsily pulling his shirt sleeve down, "But it's how Ronnie did it, ohhhhhh, fuck, it's the best shot we've got, provided I don't pass out..." He took several deep breaths. "If we pull this off, we'll be able to go lock me in the basement again..."

His eyes bugged as Joni slunk through the wall beside him, a dirty bundle in her mouth. She dropped it and sniffed anxiously at Sam, then gave Andrew a happy greeting.

Andrew gaped. "Did I just see her walk through a wall, or am I hallucinating in pain?"

"It's a half-Hellhound trick," grinned Sam, picking up the phone. "Looks like Ronnie's found us," he said, texting back. "This has a better chance of working with weapons."

"I don't suppose you brought any Vicodin?" asked Andrew mournfully, patting Joni's head. "Didn't think so." He pulled himself slowly to his feet, wincing and swearing under his breath, and took the knife from the bundle. "Okay, are you ready to be terrified?"

"Dean says I scream like a girl, so I can probably be convincing enough," Sam smiled grimly, cocking the gun. "So, lay it on me."

"I just may cough myself to death trying to do this," Andrew sighed, leaning on the wall. With a determined grimace, he threw back his head, and howled.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"This thing's a monster," Burke cautioned, double-checking the heavy manacles tethered to large, corroding shackles in the warehouse floor. "Be damned careful, Alex. I'm not kidding, he's huge."

"I will," Croydon smiled, checking the edge on a knife. "I'll be interested to see what sort of a specimen Winchester will make."

"Lucrative," suggested Burke, smiling unpleasantly. Croydon laughed at that.

"If the guys can get them separated before he shifts," he qualified. "It's a bit of a gamble, but worth a try. We have nothing to lose. If it doesn't work, well, a feeding werewolf is a distracted werewolf."

"We'll be waiting right outside the door," Burke assured him, "The second we hear it, we'll deal."

"Excellent, excellent," Croydon mused. "Although, I did have another job in mind for you, if you trust the guys to deal with our four-legged friends." Burke raised his eyebrows. "The dog," Croydon went on, "That dog the Winchesters Hunt with. The Rottweiler. Jimi. I want him. You have some experience with handling savage dogs, I believe."

"Pitbulls, mostly," Burke reminded him, "Fighting each other, not me, though. You said he's not friendly."

"Not yet, he isn't," agreed Croydon, "But I would consider a dog that can bring down an Old North wolf very valuable."

"How valuable?"

"Fifty if you bring him in undamaged," Croydon said easily, "Once his current owners are dead, a fine animal like that will need rehoming. There may be more if you can help me to, shall we say, talk him around."

Burke grinned. "Woof woof," he said, moving to take his leave, "Just call me the Dog Whisperer."

Croydon was setting out the last of his knives when he heard the howl, then the scream. He checked his watch; he'd expected to have more time before Jaeger shapeshifted, but it wasn't an exact science. Still, his crew were ready to go in and dart it. Or them, if he was just a little bit lucky.

Smiling to himself, he headed back towards the holding rooms to supervise the removal of the first one. He doubted Winchester would be bigger, if what Burke reported was true, but if he was, he'd start with him.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The two smirking goons who opened the door, armed with dart pistols, got more than they bargained for. Andrew grabbed the first one with the rope around his neck and hung on until the goon dropped his pistol then fell to the floor, eyes bulging and face turning blue. Sam darted out and grabbed the second one, smashing the butt of the gun into his face and feeling the cartilage go squelch. Goon number two tried to take aim with the dart pistol, but Sam smacked the gun into his elbow, feeling something break, and the man dropped to the floor, writhing in pain.

"Keys," barked Andrew, giving the choked out individual a kick, as Sam went through the other man's pockets.

"Here," he threw them to Andrew, who fumbled a bit before managing to unlock himself. "You okay?"

"Actually, no," Andrew tried to grin, but it turned into a wince, "I feel like my arm is being burned off, but I'll live. Let's find Dean."

They heard him long before they found the right door; one of Croydon's henchmen was standing outside it, shouting back at Dean to shut the fuck up, while another shook his head and smirked.

"Back up assholes!" yelled Sam, gun trained on the one closest to the door.

The other goon went to pull his gun; the knife went sailing past Sam's shoulder and buried itself in the guy's shoulder. He dropped to his knees, screaming, as Andrew casually retrieved the knife, and picked up the gun. "Fucking amateur," he muttered, giving the downed man a hearty kick.

"Dean!" Sam was at the door.

"Right here, Sammy," his brother called back, "Prick in the blue shirt has the key."

Sam disarmed the prick in the blue shirt and growled "Well?" at him. The prick in the blue shirt decided he wasn't getting paid enough to get shot, and handed them over.

"You took your time," Dean grinned at Sam, staggering slightly, as Jimi trotted out behind him to exchange growl-wrestles with Joni. "Hi there again, Andrew."

"Howdy, Dave," Andrew nodded, "Or can I call you Dean now?"

"Shouldn't you be experiencing a slight excess body hair problem about now?" Dean went on, leaning on the wall with a groan.

"We kind of pre-empted wolf-out time a bit, but it's soon," shrugged Andrew. "Just in case, I'm rocking Ronnie's Patented Anti-Shapeshift Device."

"We'll explain later," Sam told his confused looking brother, "Right now, we should get out of here, meet up with Ronnie, and get the fuck out of Dodge before Burke shows up again."

"You know, I really wouldn't mind having a little chat with him," scowled Dean.

"Later," Andrew said, eyeing Dean's wound, "Let's get out, find Ronnie, head back to my place, and we can look at that shoulder, see if the rounds are still in there..."

Another howl sounded from somewhere else in the building.

"What the hell?" muttered Dean.

"That's Ronnie," said Andrew with certainty.

"What's she doing in here?" wondered Sam, "She said to get out of here as soon as we could, the truck would be waiting."

"If I was a betting man," mused Dean, "I'd say she's going after Croydon."

"What? Oh, shit," growled Andrew, "Sam, get your brother outside, I'll meet you out there."

"Where are you going?" Sam asked.

"To save her from herself," snapped Andrew, turning towards the noise and breaking into a run.

"Jesus, Andrew you can barely... oh, shit," groaned Sam, "He's got a silver chain wrapped around his arm, he can hardly see straight!"

"And we have no idea where Burke is," sighed Dean, pushing himself upright against the wall. "Fuck. Come on, Sam, follow that werewolf!"

"There are days when I hate being one of the good guys," Sam humphed, as they set off after Andrew.

* * *

><p>Nearly done, just gotta deal out some cosmic comeuppance, and finish off...<p>

Reviews are the Lickable Winchesters in the Hot Tub Of Life! (You weirdos.)


	18. Chapter 15

I offer humble and grovelling apologies for delays or hiatuses (hiatii? hiatae? hiata? I apologise for a hiatus, and I apologise for another one), but sometimes, this ghastly, ghastly thing called Real Life gets in the way of more important things (like eating chocolate, romantic evenings with my motorcycles, or entertaining the Denizens, which obviously is extremely important and the humourless wretches who employ me don't realise that). I understand your frustration, I really do, it's just unreasonable, the whole concept of being expected to show up at work and actually perform a job in order to be paid. Ridiculous, I tell you! Why can't they just send me my pay packet here? Think of the overheads they'd save if I wasn't there, using up electricity and water... never mind, one day I will find a way to live on plot bunnies, then I can frolic in the Jimiverse full time.

Remember, DDD&SSS crew, there will be no dunking Dean in the bubble tub until his wounds have healed, or you can procure an adequate supply of OpSite dressings, and be careful doing Sam's hair treatments because he has scalp wounds. They're bound to be black and blue, though, so maybe you can spend more time on the massaging.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

Alex Croydon had actually once been a Hunter, trained into it by his family, but he had realised early on that there was money to be made on the periphery by an astute businessman, supplying occult wares and artefacts to Hunters and other interested individuals. So when he saw the two damaged men and the door wide open and Winchester and Jaeger gone, the Hunter was able to work out what had happened immediately.

When he heard the howl of a hunting wolf come from the other direction, the astute businessman realised that sometimes it was best just to cut your losses.

He doubled back, away from the sound, to collect the tools of his trade, and get out. It was a shame, it was a damned shame, but it wasn't a complete loss: he could regroup with Burke later, and maybe pick up a werewolf-taking dog, with a bit of luck. The damned thing would still be here in a month or two, they could come back, try again.

He ran into one of his men, one who was supposed to be keeping an eye on the other Winchester, ready to throw him to his brother when required. The man was wild-eyed, clearly afraid.

"They're out," he announced without preamble, "They're all out, Billy got a knife in the arm, I don't know what happened to the others, they're really pissed, Alex, and they're armed, we should leave..."

"That's the plan," Croydon agreed, "Come and give me a hand. We'll head out of town, regroup, rethink this job."

"Where's Burke? And what about the others?" asked Prick In A Blue Shirt. "Billy didn't look so good..."

"Burke's running an errand, and the guys are big boys, then can look after themselves," Croydon said dismissively, "Right now, the important thing is for you to help me collect my gear."

"We can't just leave them here," the other man insisted, "Billy looks pretty bad, I was coming to tell you..."

"And I'm telling you that I have more important things to worry about," snarled Croydon, "And you get paid to do what I tell you. Now, are you with me, or not?" The other man looked unhappy, but fell in behind him.

"Just throw them in the bag," Croydon snapped when his assistant paused, eyeing the dart pistols and the grisly array of knives and other instruments he had carefully laid out. "I'll sort them out later." He eyed the werewolf-proof manacles and chains, and decided they would have to stay. He could come back for them later, or replace them, right now, the priority was to get gone before the werewolf came looking for him, or, worse, the Winchesters...

He was so absorbed in planning out his escape that he didn't notice anything until he heard the strangled yelp behind him.

The woman had his reluctant accomplice by the throat, and was casually studying his face. "You're not Burke," she sneered, throwing him against the wall, where he slid down it and remained still.

Croydon broke into a grin. "Well, as I live and breathe," he smiled, "Veronica Shepherd!" He looked her up and down. "My, my, my, didn't you grow up impressive?"

"Oh, Alex, you have no idea," she purred, sniffing the air, "Not loaded with silver? That's an oversight I wouldn't have anticipated."

"Not interested in killing werewolves, as you know," he grinned at her. "So, what brings you to Montana?"

"The Hunt," she told him, "I'm on the prowl to deal with evil shit."

"So I've heard," Croydon replied. "Did you really take down that pair in North Dakota last year? Brothers?"

"Guilty as charged," she smiled in a predatory fashion, "Shot one, shredded the other. Big bastards. Sorry if I ruined a business opportunity for you." She cocked her head. "No, I'm not really, I'm just being facetious. Don't look at me like that, Alex," she sighed, "For a start, I can tell you that I'd make a disappointing pelt. I'm short, even for an Old North wolf; bitches usually are. I'm barely Sam Winchester's height."

"Veronica – may I call you Ronnie? – 'disappointing' is not a word I would ever apply to you," Croydon smiled widely.

"Still looking to turn me into a rug?" she asked. "I'm hoping you'll try. It'll give me the perfect excuse to gut you like the pig you are."

"Ah, what a waste that would be!" Croydon gestured expansively. "Ronnie, I don't want to skin you. I want to offer you a job."

She looked totally nonplussed. "Yer what?" she gaped, mystified.

"It's just sound business, Ronnie," he went on, "It's always just been about the business. You would be a formidable asset. A valuable employee. No, a contractor. A specialist consultant. I would be prepared to pay handsomely to... retain your services, from time to time." He saw that he had her attention, so he continued. "There is a lot of money to be made for those who know how to supply what the market demands, Ronnie, you know that. Think about it; you'd be getting paid, to Hunt! It's big dollars. You do what you do best, and get handsomely remunerated. Spotter's fees, payment for bringing in a big bad critter – I'd offer you a cut of the proceeds. Wolf skins, vampires' teeth, rugaru hide, black dog pelts. It could happen, Ronnie. You could have a life. You could have a home. Just think, maybe even a little plastic surgery..."

She laughed, genuinely and loudly. "Nah, doesn't really sound like me," she told him, drawing her knife. "Somebody told me that some guys dig scars. So I think I'll just finish what I should have ended when I had the chance..."

"RONNIE!" The single word, barked in an authoritative voice, brought her up short, although she didn't take her eyes off Croydon.

"Andrew!" The relief in her voice was clear. "Jeez, way to scare the shit out of me, you berk... is that the unmistakeable whiff of Winchesters I detect?"

"Right here, Ronnie," Sam put in. "Just, put the knife away."

"I will," she replied, "Just as soon as I've finished with this piece of..."

"No." Andrew's tone was firm. "You won't."

"Why not?" demanded Dean, leaning on his brother, "Just let her stab him already..."

"No," Andrew repeated. "Put it away. Now. This is not how you operate. This is not who you are. This is not Hunting."

"He won't stop," she said levelly, "He won't stop, until he has his pelt. He'll try again."

"Possibly," replied Andrew, equally reasonably, "But he's human. There's no law against being a bastard, Ronnie. This is just plain, old-fashioned, completely unsupernatural human greed and bastardry."

"Ronnie, I understand where you're coming from, believe me," Sam chimed in, "But you know that this is out of a Hunter's jurisdiction." Croydon's mouth worked soundlessly.

"He came after Andrew!" she hissed in fury. Her features contorted, as if struggling to change.

"Yes, he did," Andrew agreed. "As I understand it, that's part of the deal. I got the impression that you've always accepted that. Don't do this. If you do this, when you've cooled off, you'll never forgive yourself. Even for a piece of scum like Croydon. This isn't a Hunt, Ronnie, this is murder."

"You said it yourself," Sam told her, "They're no better than the fuglies we Hunt. You do this, in cold blood, you're no better than they are."

She let out a snarl, but the one that Andrew let out was louder. She smiled a little.

"All right, Mr Alpha Male, I submit," she huffed, putting away her knife, her shoulders slumping. "So, how do you want to play this?"

We'll lock the door, and get the hell out. Croydon, don't - fucking - move."

Ronnie glared at Croydon. "You ever come after me or mine again, and I really _will_ get cranky in your general direction." Croydon visibly sagged with relief.

"Okay, I think he gets the message," Andrew told her, "Now back up and we can get out of he-"

With a snarling roar, Ronnie launched herself at Croydon, changing, just enough, in mid-leap.

Croydon drew a dart pistol and silver knife in the other hand. He fired the pistol, but wasn't quick enough.

Ronnie blocked the knife with her arm, where it opened up a long gash then raked her side, then, looking more wolf than human, sank her teeth into the screaming man's neck. She got one single tearing bite in before the dart took effect. She stepped back, staggering, smiling, human in appearance again, as Croydon collapsed, shrieking, blood welling and leaking from the wound as he clutched at it. As she started to fall, Andrew was beside her, catching her, cursing himself and her and any useless deity who happened to be listening.

"Jesus Christ, woman, remind me never to annoy you," he muttered at her. As her head lolled against his shoulder, she grinned up at him, her face bloodied. She licked her lower lip in a way that the three stunned men found disturbing.

"Whoss said I wanned t' kill 'im?" she slurred, before the sedative took full effect. Sam gasped audibly at the realisation of what she'd done.

"Andrew," he asked urgently, "Can you tell, if you dropped the silver, would you shift?"

Andrew appeared to concentrate for a moment as he scooped up Ronnie. "Any minute now," he confirmed. Dean actually cackled.

The noise had roused Croydon's companion from where he had slumped after Ronnie threw him. He staggered to his feet, looking in bewilderment at Croydon, then to the Winchesters, then back again.

Dean couldn't keep the smirk off his face or out of his tone. "Your pal here has just been bitten. Moonrise will be very soon. Like, about _now_. You wanted a werewolf? Congratulations - you've got one. Deal with it."

"Let's just get the hell out," muttered Sam, grabbing his brother.

"Amen to that," agreed Andrew.

They found the truck readily enough, with the keys in the ignition – Ronnie had apparenty intended to leave it for them.

"Where's Jimi and Joni?" demanded Dean as Sam manhandled him into the back seat, "Sam, stop it, I'm fine, OW!"

"They strike me as two dogs who know how to look after themselves," Andrew said, depositing Ronnie in shotgun, "I get the distinct impression that they'll come home when they're ready."

A long, wailing howl travelled to them through the night air.

"He's a werewolf," commented Sam, "Croydon's a werewolf, we have to..."

"Not now," snapped Andrew, "You have no silver, your brother is shot, you're injured, and Madam Fang here..." his voice trailed off. "He probably won't be able to get out until he's human again. We'll hole up, lick our wounds, and come back tomorrow, see what's what."

"Who put you in charge?" Dean wanted to know.

"Them in there," replied Andrew sternly, starting the truck, "When they shot you, cracked your brother's head, and left me the closest thing to an able-bodied... body we have right now. That wound is still bleeding, Dean, I could see it even if I couldn't smell it."

"That asshole Burke is still in there somewhere," Dean began again.

"Dean, stow it." Andrew's tone brooked no insurrection.

"Yes, sir," scowled Dean. Sam had to grin just a little.

"Don't 'sir' me, I used to work for a living," Andrew replied, pulling onto the tar and flooring it.

"How are you doing, Andrew?" asked Sam.

"Just peachy," the older man replied, "The silver is holding, if that's what you're worried about, but it hurts like hell." He glanced at the Winchesters in the mirror. "We'll get the humanoids sorted out, then I'll come back for the dogs, if they haven't shown up."

Dean grinned. "You know, she needs someone to go alpha male on her ass," he suggested, wincing at the throbbing in his shoulder, "I think you'd be good for Ronnie."

"Dean!" Sam shot his brother Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled, Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted).

"I'm just sayin'," Dean added.

Andrew smiled a little. "I think so too," he agreed.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Burke had been a Hunter too, of sorts, although he only fell into it when it paid, and coincided with the particular skill set he had. One of the particular skills he had was staying alive, and he exercised it when he heard the howl shortly after he left Croydon. A single glance at the scene of Sam and Andrew's escape, rapidly followed by a second howl, told him that it was time to get out, and live to fight another day.

He was headed for his car when, to his utter astonishment, a large Rottweiler appeared in front of him. It was the Winchesters' dog. How it had ended up here was anyone's guess, but here it was. He considered it; Croydon was right, a dog that could bring down an Old North werewolf would be valuable.

"Hey there, fella," he said pleasantly to the animal, "Jimi, isn't it? How you doin', Jimi?"

The dog cocked his head and pricked his ears, looking attentively adorable. Burke grinned to himself; Rotties were intelligent, but mostly big sooks – speak to them in the right tone, and they'd roll over for a belly rub.

"Why don't you come on with me?" he smiled. The dog whuffed softly; he heard an answering woof from behind him.

"Well, I'll be damned..." There were two of them. The smaller animal, a fine-boned bitch, he saw, trotted out of the darkness to sit with the larger one. "Aint you just a beautiful girl?" The smaller dog broke into a doggy grin, tongue lolling. A relative of the big guy, Burke guessed. If she was, she might produce puppies that would make fine Hunting or fighting dogs...

"So, why don't you both come with me? Come!" The dogs regarded him seriously. Some trick of the light made their eyes glow dull red as they walked towards him. "That's the way. Good boy, good girl, come!"

The dogs strolled up to him, and he reached down to pat the larger one's head. "Who's a good boy, then..."

Burke had seen some strange things in his time, given his employment history, but he found himself staring in disbelief as the dog opened its mouth, and suddenly it's jaws were bristling with impossibly long and terrifying teeth like knives...

When it reached up and neatly snapped at his hand, severing it above the wrist, he could only stare stupidly at the ragged, bloodied stump on the end of his arm, his mouth gaping in incomprehension. _What just happened?_

The smaller one sniffed carefully at his leg, then extruded a mouthful of giant shark-teeth and, almost daintily, tore half of his thigh away in one bite.

He broke his bemused silence then – he collapsed, screaming as much in disbelief as in pain. The male dog whuffed happily, and took another bite at his arm, this time taking his elbow and leaving the end of the humerus bone protruding from the fleshy wreckage below his shoulder.

His screams started in earnest then, and continued even as the female dog delicately sank her teeth into his side, pulling away a large chunk of flesh with a couple of ribs clearly protruding. They'd largely subsided to a reedy keening sound by the time his limbs had been reduced to mangled stumps and most of his face had been chewed off, but with his remaining eye he was able to watch as they nosed about in his guts, and the smaller one grabbed hold of something and pulled, which sent a novel wave of agony through him as she nibbled delicately at something long and wet and hanging in glistening loops.

Even after the male contentedly gnawed off his scalp and remaining eye, he could hear the enthusiastic slurping of the female under the gurgling, wordless wailing noise issuing from what was left of his throat...

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Bobby and the Winchesters would keep an ear to the ground for several months afterwards for news of Burke, but he appeared to have dropped off the face of the Earth. Sam suggested he'd ended up a canine snack the night that Croydon shapeshifted. Dean hoped he'd died horribly and painfully and above all slowly, preferably watching his own guts being dragged out of his still-living body. They had to resign themselves to the fact that they'd probably never find out for sure.

As it turned out, there were both right.

All they did know was that Jimi and Joni made their way back to Andrew's place, their muzzles and forelegs covered in blood, carrying Sam and Dean's guns, which Burke had taken. Ronnie tried to ask them about what they'd been up to later, but couldn't get a clear explanation beyond:

_We Hunted our Prey._

At the time, Dean suggested that, since both of them were Hunter's dogs, and had 'good noses for evil shit', they could've found a fugly on the way back, and hadn't killed anything that didn't need killing. Sam suggested that they might've been sidetracked by hunting something for a bit of fun, and eaten it – certainly, neither dog wanted any dinner the next night.

So they were both right again.

Ronnie wrinkled her nose, but if she recognised the scent on the dogs, she didn't say anything.

* * *

><p>I do like a bit of cosmic comeuppance.<p>

Reviews are the Hellhound Teethmarks in the Bad Guys Of Life!


	19. Chapter 16

Holy crap, this thing is longer than Dean's list of conquests, longer than Sam's hair, longer than Bobby's long-suffering in the face of idjitry... but we're just about there! I have fixed the Ch15 typo, as spotted by the eagle-eyed knivespast - it's not Ian, it's Andrew. (Ian has been mentioned before as Ronnie's sometime Hunt buddy. During this story, he's actually in Iowa, dealing with a nest of plot bunnies. Unfortunately, one of them bit him, and he spent a whole day wanting to claw his own eyes out as it sat on his shoulder and dictated a Twilight slash fic to him.)

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><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

To distract himself from the searing pain below his left elbow, Andrew found himself musing over some of the interesting conversations he'd had with Ronnie.

She had told him lots of things about Hunters. Hunters often used false names, because they often had to use fake IDs. They had to find creative ways of raising money to live off – gambling was popular, if you were good at it, as were bar games like pool and darts. Credit card or online fraud was a fall-back. Her own habit of rolling drug dealers was made uniquely possible by her shapeshifting capacity ("With the big fish, the trick is to walk in on them starkers, and act like you own the place – most of the time they're so stunned they don't react until I've waltzed out with the money. Biker gangs are good for that, because most of the time they're drunk, and they just think somebody ordered a stripper.") Of course, that had started him thinking about her walking around naked – undressed, he reminded himself, undressed, she was adamant that she was _never_ naked – and he'd had to excuse himself, and start washing the dishes while imagining Sally Jesse Raphael in feathers and pasties reciting The Gettysburg Address...

She'd told him that they didn't like hospitals, because it was fraught with problems: there was the banal practicality of the cost – bogus insurance or fraudulent credit cards always ran a risk of discovery, too often there were awkward questions about how injuries were sustained, and gunshot wounds were the worst, because they were hardest to explain and invariably the police would be notified, and it just got complicated when that happened... Anyway, most Hunters avoided hospitals except in the direst matters of life-or-death (and sometimes even then); they learned, by necessity, to patch themselves up, or each other if they were with a Hunt buddy. Andrew could understand that; his background as a military medic had seen a couple of friends occasionally drop by with injuries that he'd treated on the quiet. It wasn't all that hard to keep a pretty good stock of the basics for basic field surgery, if you knew whom to approach, didn't ask too many questions, paid cash and weren't squeamish...

She'd also told him that the Winchester brothers spent half their time sniping at each other about their respective sex lives (or perceived lack thereof), and the rest of the time bickering like an old married couple. He'd been sure that her colourful descriptions ("Sam's okay, although he can be a bitchfacing mother hen with a Little Brother complex, and Dean is a smug prick who thinks he's God's Gift To Womankind with a smirk that could make Buddha lose his temper and an incurable Protective Big Brother complex") were exaggerated, and had been coloured by her experiences – they'd seemed like pretty decent guys, brothers who were just concerned about each other, even if Dean did show slightly bloodthirsty tendencies towards anyone he thought might be threatening Sam.

Now, as they sat in the back seat of the truck, upbraiding each other about their injuries, their taste in music, their after-dark activities, and anything that seemed to pop into their (admittedly, a bit addled at the moment) heads, he wasn't so certain.

They'd been at it for a solid twenty minutes. He was pretty sure that even his two elderly maiden great-aunts, Sadie and Dotsie, who had been conducting a celebrated and occasionally bordering-on-psychotic feud for as long as anyone else in the family could remember, had not managed that; the Winchesters gave the distinct impression that they were just getting warmed up.

It sounded like it had come back to an argument they'd had before. The topic of the evening's most recent debate was another round of 'That Dean Needs To Go To Emergency For Medical Attention', with Sam forcefully putting the case for the affirmative, while Dean apparently believed he had won the case for the negative with repetition of the 'Because I Said So' rebuttal.

If anyone had asked him, he would have preferred to haul both their asses into the nearest A&E. For a start, it was closer than his place. They were both looking the worse for wear, as the adrenaline of finding each other and getting the hell out was wearing off. Sam looked about ready to collapse, zoning in and out, while Dean's face was going worryingly white and his wounds were still bleeding.

"Dean, for fuck's sake, which bit of 'You Have Been Shot' do you not understand?" snapped Sam, with an expression that Dean recognised as Bitchface #4™ (You Are Injured Worse Than Me, Jerk).

"I've had worse," declared Dean grimly, bravado oozing from every pore, "They probably went straight through, at such close range."

"The rounds could still be in there," Sam griped, trying to inspect Dean's shoulder as his big brother yelped and slapped him away, "Dean, knock it off! I need to see if there are exit wounds!"

"You're so cross-eyed all you can see is your own nose, Sammy," Dean said brusquely, "Now, shut up and let me look at your head, that asshole got you good. You look like you're about to puke. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Jesus Christ, Dean, this is no time for one of your luxury Egyptian cruises up Denial!" stormed Sam, listing slightly to starboard. "Aaaaaaargh!"

"Hold still!" ordered Dean, grabbing Sam's head with his good arm, "I can't see a damned thing for all that hair!"

It went on for another five minutes in that vein. He threw another glance at Ronnie, who hadn't moved – she'd had a dose that was intended for a 300 pound-plus male, and he had no idea what else was in the stuff, or what effect it had, and the silver was really stinging badly...

"Guys," he said, "I can take care of it, Ronnie told me why Hunters don't like hospitals, so maybe give it a rest now..."

"You mother-henning bitch!"

"Guys, seriously, enough..."

"Take this seriously, you jerk!"

_Enough!_

In the sudden silence that followed his rumbling snarl, he caught sight of their startled faces in the mirror.

Then he caught sight of his own face in the mirror. Complete with two prominent canine fangs trying to descend.

"Oh. Er. Sorry about that," he garbled around his teeth, as they disappeared again. "It's kind of been a difficult night for everybody, I guess, and we're all rather tired."

"See? The Alpha Male has spoken, Sammy," humphed Dean, "Don't argue. He's bigger than you. And even hairier."

"Er, yeah," agreed Sam warily. "That'd be great, Andrew. Thanks." He leaned back on the seat, and closed his eyes.

They travelled in silence for a while.

"He's cranky, isn't he?" Dean whispered to Sam.

"Must be a werewolf thing," Sam whispered back.

Andrew had a feeling he was going to have trouble not thinking of them privately as Aunty Samantha and Aunty Deanna.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was a reworking of a scene that had played out at Bobby's place before, the use of the kitchen table as an operating table, a tray of instruments cold-sterilising in sharp-smelling iodine disinfectant, and Dean whining as Andrew tried to clean as much blood as possible out of the way.

"You're in luck, I've got local, and systemic analgesics," Andrew told him, scrabbling through a first aid box containing small vials and syringes.

"What the hell are you doing with this stuff?" asked Sam, from where he sat with an ice pack against his head, on pain of pain if he moved.

"I was a medic in a previous life; let's just say, Hunters aren't the only ones who have friends who occasionally need repair under the radar," was all Andrew would say cryptically. "I'll do what I can, Dean," he told the older Winchester, starting with the local anaesthetic, but this is probably still going to hurt. You got any allergies I need to know about?"

"I'm allergic to being shot," Dean said through gritted teeth.

"He can get kind of, er, loopy, with painkillers," Sam warned.

"Really, however will we tell," muttered Andrew, administering the drug. "I need him to hold still; I'm not actually a doctor."

"Dammit, Jim, I'm a werewolf, not a doctor!" grumped Dean in his best Bones McCoy voice.

"Andrew, are you all right to do this?" asked Sam, taking in the man's pale face and obvious discomfort with the silver, "I've done this before, and..."

"Sam, you look like shit," smiled Andrew, using a no-nonsense tone. "You should be lying down. If you move, I will go alpha male on your ass. It's actually better when I have something to concentrate on. How you doin' there, Dean?"

"Your ceiling has rabbits," announced Dean in a slightly slurred voice, "But they look pretty well secured, except for that green one."

"I did say," offered Sam.

"The fun just never stops with you two, does it?" Andrew peered at the wounds in Dean's shoulder. "Okay, I think you still got one in there, so let's see where it went..."

"Don't put dents in my wheelbarrow!" insisted Dean. "It took forever to manicure the liquorice!"

"Promise not to," Andrew reassured him, reaching for the forceps.

"If anybody paints my sofa, I'll tell Batman," Dean said, "And he'll get totally teutonic. With cookies."

"Sorry about this," Sam said sheepishly.

"It could be worse," Andrew told him, "I once had a guy who triggered an IED, and he spent the entire evac working his way through 'Master Of Puppets'."

"Tha's a good album," offered Dean, "Even with the umbrella nuns in the background doing crochet."

Andrew retrieved the round that was lodged in Dean's shoulder, while Sam apologised and Dean offered his own drug-induced insights into proceedings ("I never had tulips, but Sam did when he was six, because of the oatmeal squirrels, with their pointy teeth, and short skirts, and too much geography"). When he was satisfied with the results, Andrew dressed the wounds, and turned to Sam.

"Okay, Dean, you just hang tight there while I have a look at Sam."

"I'm good," Sam told him.

"Yeah, he's good," echoed Dean, "He's a fucking teacher's pet, he's so good, goody two shoes, goody-goody, not like me, I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm the bad boy, I've been baaaaaaad, Mistress Amanda..."

"Oh, God," winced Sam, as much from horror as from discomfort as Andrew cleaned up his head wounds, "Please sew his mouth shut before he starts on Chicks I Have Banged."

Andrew just laughed. "I think you'll get away with some butterfly closures here," he said, "We can try to change the subject. So, Dean, tell me about the squirrels and their excessive geography."

Dean's eyes bugged, crossing slightly. "You know about the squirrels?" he asked.

"Uh-huh, you just told me," Andrew played along. "Damned cheeky things."

"Very cheeky," agreed Dean, nodding, "Like the teapot. You know, the flying teapot? With the spatula? And the spinning tassles?"

"Can't say I'm familiar with it," Andrew admitted, as Sam cringed.

"Just like that. Only orangererer. Orangier. Er. Oranger. More orange. Like the caravan. And bees. And Ronnie."

"I wouldn't have described Ronnie as particularly, er, orange," Sam had to add.

"She is!" insisted Dean. "She told us, Sam! She told us she was an orange!"

"I don't think she did," answered Sam, taking the proffered Tylenol and water from Andrew.

"Yes, she did!" Dean was adamant. "She is definitely an orange. When I was cursed, she told us..."

"She is a woman of many secrets," Andrew agreed, "It is entirely possible that she's an orange. Come on, Dean," he helped Dean sit up on the table, "I think that a few hours horizontal in the spare room might do you good. You too, Sam."

"No, no, no," Dean said more forcefully, wobbling as he tried to stand, "You don't understand! She's an _orange_!"

"Okay, buddy, heard and understood, she's an orange," Andrew soothingly agreed.

"It's not funny," Dean told him, "It's a tragedy, really, nobody should get to her age and still be an orange..."

Andrew threw a bewildered look at Sam. "Do you have any idea what he's trying to say?"

Sam looked stricken. "Yeah, I think I do, and it's time for him to SHUT UP, DEAN..."

"Nooooo!" Dean wailed, clutching at Andrew's shirt. "You have to do something," he pleaded, "You have to be careful, because she's never, she's never, she's never..."

"I think you'll feel better after some sleep," Andrew told Dean reassuringly.

"She's never even been kissed!" howled Dean, eyes shining with unshed tears. "It's not right! It's not right! You gotta understand, she – is – an – _orange!_ But she likes you! You like her! You're a werewolf! She's a werewolf! She's cranky, you're cranky! She bakes pie, you're a man! You're a perfect pair! You're the one to do it Andrew, you gotta pop her orange so we can all get some sleep..."

Andrew's mouth opened and shut a few times. "Er, I think you need to get some sleep right now," he said finally. "I'll get onto the, er, orange thing right away, okay?"

Dean gave him a sunny smile of relief, eyes slightly crossed again. "That's great," he sighed. "Don't frighten her, Andrew, or she'll bite your tongue."

"I'll keep that in mind," Andrew promised, helping Dean to stumble as far as one of the beds in the spare room.

"Kill me now," muttered Sam.

"Nope, you get to deal with him when he wakes up," smiled Andrew. "You get some sleep too. You really do look like shit."

"Gee, thanks," Sam replied, dropping onto the other bed and pulling off his boots. "What about Ronnie?"

"I guess we let her sleep it off," shrugged Andrew. "You worry about Dr Ruth here," he jerked a thumb at Dean, who was murmuring sweet nothings to his pillow. "I'll see you when you surface."

"Okay. Hey, thanks, Andrew," Sam smiled.

"No problem. I'm glad you didn't garrotte me, after all. See you later."

"Go pop that girl's orange!" Dean called after him. "She needs to get oranged! The pineapple corgis are depending on you, Mr Daisy Feet!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

With the Winchesters dealt with, Sam snoring gently and Dean mumbling imprecations about the importance of relieving Ronnie of her orangeness – as euphemisms went, it wasn't the strangest one he'd ever heard – Andrew went back to the sofa where he'd left her. She was out cold; whatever was in that dart had really done a number on her.

"I'm sorry, Ronnie," he told her, even if she couldn't hear him, "I had to deal with Dean first, and make sure Sam's head wound wasn't too deep. I'll get you fixed up."

The gashes on her arm and side were nasty, but straight. Croydon's knife had been sharp. The one in her arm needed sutures, and he was grateful she was out.

"I cannot tell you how grateful I am you came looking for me," he said as he worked, "But I have to tell you, you scared the hell out of me when you jumped at Croydon. I wish you hadn't done that. Not on my account, anyway. It's kind of scary to think you'd do that on my account. Still, I get the feeling he pissed you off kind of badly..."

She rumbled something unintelligible, and shivered.

"Has anybody ever told you how much easier you are to talk to when you're asleep?" he chuckled, pulling her boots off. "Come on, you'll be more comfortable upstairs."

He picked her up and she mumbled again, snuggling her head into his shoulder.

"Are you really an orange?" he whispered into her hair. Christ, that would explain so much. No wonder she was... scared.

He saw her settled into his bed, and decided he should go lock himself in the basement again, just in case, but she stirred restlessly, and frowned.

He grabbed hold of one of her hands. "Hey, it's okay, you're safe now," he told her, "Just sleep it off, Ronnie." She stilled, and her eyes opened sleepily. She mumbled that rumbling noise again, and he realised that while he didn't 'understand', he got the gist of it.

_Den. Safety._

"Absolutely," he smiled at her. The burning sting of the silver suddenly didn't seem so bad; he settled next to her, with his back against the headboard, holding her hand. "Go back to sleep."

Jimi and Joni arrived a bit later, panting happily, greeting him enthusiastically, and covered in blood. He did what he could to clean them up, then Jimi joined Dean on his bed, and Joni followed him back upstairs. She settled on the other side of him, careful not to get between him and Ronnie.

Funny thing, life, he thought, as he stroked her ears and the red highlights crackled across her big brown eyes. Having spent the evening escaping from being skinned alive, then meeting a real-life Bert and Ernie and patching then up, I'm sitting here wearing a silver chain around one arm despite the searing pain so I don't turn into a werewolf, patting a half-Hellhound, realising just how hard I've fallen for another werewolf, who's an... orange.

This story beat even the one about the Volvo-owning opera singer who ate tenors.

"I wonder what the boring people are doing tonight, huh?" he asked Joni.

She whuffed contentedly, and dropped her head into his lap.

* * *

><p>We're nearly there. Just need to finish it off a bit. And maybe dish out one last bit of cosmic comeuppance... oh yes, some chocolate-coated internets to whoever spots the Pratchett homage...<p>

Reviews are the Polished Liquorice in the Wheelbarrows Of Life!


	20. Chapter 17

**SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: DELETED SCENE FROM CHAPTER 16**

*white van pulls up outside Andrew's house*

**Andrew:** WTF?

*knock knock knock*

**Andrew (answers door):** Um, yes?

*gaggle of ladeez in a variety of nurses' uniforms stand on his porch, wearing rubber gloves, holding scrubbing brushes and loofahs and various other implements associated with Inflicting Bodily Cleanliness With Extreme Prejudice. They sing their jingle.*

_Have your Winchesters been fighting? Are they dirty? Are they bruised?_  
><em>Were they shot or whacked or tied up, maltreated or misused?<em>  
><em>Call DDD&amp;SSS we'll clean them up and then<br>__We promise satisfaction or we'll do it all again._

**Aeicha:** We are here to tend to your dirty, damaged Winchesters, clean them up, kiss their boo-boos, and wipe away their tears. Where are they?

**Andrew:** Er, in the spare room.

**Bartlebead (with reassuring smile):** Leave this to us, sir, we have a lot of experience with This Sort Of Thing. *consults clipboard* You want the therapeutic massage and chocolate drizzling with that?

**Paralesky:** Pay no attention to any noises you might hear, for example refusals to remove shirts or protestations of ticklishness.

*They hustle through the house. Andrew goes back upstairs and hides under the bed with Joni. Strange noises are heard from downstairs.*

**Sam:** Hey I got hit in the head, why are you trying to take my shirt ofAAARGH!

**Leahelisabeth:** Now now, we are professionals, and we have to check for any bruising that needs licking, I mean, treatment.

**Dean:** Sam! Saaaaam! There's a cat walking up and down me!

**PaulatheCat:** Meow, purr purr, heh heh, purr purr *licks Dean's feet*

**Dean (shrieks like a girl):** AIEEE! Sam, it's licking my toes! It's weird, and strangely erotic.

**Knivespast:** You need more chocolate there?

**PaulatheCat:** Nah, I'm good.

**Sam (in small voice):** I don't like the loofah...

**Ciya:** Now now, don't be a big baby. Nurse Ciya will hold your, um, hand. For starters.

**SeaGlassGreen:** I've just tested the temperature in the custard tub, it's perfect. Who's going in first?

**Sam (eyes brimming with tears):** I don't wanna go in the custard tuuuuuub!

**Leahelisabeth:** There there, it will be good for your bruises. And make you even tastier. I mean, heal up faster.

**Paralesky:** Come along, Dean, into the custard tub.

**Dean:** tell me more about this custard tub. Is there wrestling in the custard tub? EEEEEE! Tickles!

**Knivespast (brandishing chocolate drizzling brush):** Sorry. *dabs more delicately*

**Aeicha (studying nails nonchalantly):** There could be.

**Sam:** WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

**Bartlebead:** No undergarments permitted in the custard tub; health regulations, doncha know.

**Sam and Dean (clutch each other):** AAAAARGH!

*DDD&SSS operatives bundle Winchesters out of house and into van. Noises suggestive of tearing of clothing, sloshing of custard, wielding of loofahs and gnashing of teeth are heard, along with miscellaneous screams, cackles and a noise that goes 'boi-oi-oi-oi-oing'. Two hours later, Dean and Sam are deposited, freshly scrubbed and smelling of delicious dairy dessert, wearing even smaller towels and cute little bandanas and shell-shocked expressions. They settle down a bit by breakfast time, although for a week afterwards both of them have a tendency to go catatonic if anyone mentions the word 'massage'.*

- just because the DDD&SSS needed one more outing...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17<strong>

"I don't believe it," breathed Dean, a rasher of bacon halfway to his mouth. Jimi took advantage of his Alpha's attention being on the tattered photograph in his hand, and grabbed the bacon. "I do not believe it."

"What?" asked Sam, looking up from his laptop.

"It's a picture of Andrew. A very young Andrew. With a very young Dave Mustaine." Dean's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline, while Andrew just smiled smugly. "He's holding you up. Or are you holding him up?" He peered at the photo. "Oh, dude, are you covered in what I think you are...?"

"It was mostly beer," Andrew explained, "And we both puked on each other."

"Yeah, that's really a Kodak moment you want to capture for posterity," grimaced Sam.

"Bro!" Dean brother admonished him, "This is like meeting royalty! If Dave Mustaine puked on me, I'd totally want a picture!"

"Royalty don't puke on their fans," Sam pointed out. "And as a rule, their fans don't puke on them. Oh God, nobody should have to listen to or use the word 'puke' while they're trying to eat breakfast."

"Technically this is probably closer to lunch, if not afternoon tea," Ronnie corrected him. "It's a headbanger thing, Sam. Pouring or puking beer on someone is a sign of friendship. Andrew! What did I say about feeding her bacon under the table?"

"Not to," replied Andrew, dropping another piece below plate height. There was a 'chump' noise, and Joni's a happy face appeared, chewing contentedly. Ronnie shot him a scowl, and he gave her a serene smile. "So, what are you two planning to do now?"

"We'll head back to Bobby's, stay there for a while and let Francis's brain re-coaguate," Dean told him, as Sam favoured him with an eloquent scowl of his own. "We might swing by that warehouse on the way, see if Croydon left anything behind. Maybe pick up his trail."

"I'll check that out," Ronnie promised. "He'll be gone by now, but if he left any clues as to where he went, I'll find 'em."

"There's a report on a local news site just come up," Sam relayed, clicking a link, "Looks like somebody must've called something in. Three men injured, and one dead, apparently mauled by a large animal. It'll be crawling with emergency services." He gave Ronnie an accusing look. "Sounds like your bite did the trick."

"Which makes him fair game, next time you see him," she smirked at him, "If I don't find him first."

"I hear that," Dean smiled unpleasantly, "So, you heading off after him, then?"

"I'm going to hang around town here for a while," she shrugged, "At least until my arm heals up. Stings like a bitch. And I need some down time. What?"

The Winchesters exchanged A Look. "Nothing," smirked Dean, "Nothing, I think it's a good idea. Hanging around here."

"Totally," agreed Sam, "You might even find you like the place."

She eyed them suspiciously, but they just gave her sunny smiles.

Andrew gave them a ride back to the Impala, handed over some antibiotics for Dean, and shook their hands. "It's been educational, guys," he told them. "Bye Jimi," he patted the dog on the head, "Feel free to drop in next time you're passing through."

"Thanks Andrew," Sam smiled.

"So, do you think she'll, you know, _hang around_ hang around?" Dean couldn't help asking.

Andrew looked thoughtful. "She might," he said at length, "I hope she will. She's gotta be the most interesting person I've ever met."

"I think she might," Sam grinned, "She didn't tear you to pieces that night you were both shifted, so she must have a pretty high opinion of you, too."

"So, if you ever want any tips," Dean waggled his eyebrows, "You know, you can give me a call..."

"And ask your advice about relieving her of her orangeness?" Andrew cocked one eyebrow.

Sam facepalmed. "Get in the car, Dean."

"I'm just sayin'," Dean went on, as they headed back to their room, "I've been thinking about the whole chat-show share-my-expertise thing, and let's face it, we don't want all this knowledge to die with me. That would be a crime against humanity."

"Oh, God, you really have a one track mind, don't you?" sighed Sam. "So, shower, change, head for Bobby's?"

"There's some research I have to conduct, first," Dean told him cryptically, "But I think we can get underway this afternoon. You can nap in the car if you're not interested."

"Research? What research?" asked Sam, mystified.

"Watch and learn, young Padawan," intoned Dean, "The movements in The Force tell me it won't happen until later this afternoon."

"What?" demanded Sam. "What's going to happen?"

"Patient you must be, hmmmm?" Dean used the Yoda voice he knew would annoy his brother. "Think of it as a... nature trek, a biology field trip. It will be educational. Fish out your binoculars, and your note pad. You might want to take notes, make some sketches, that sort of thing."

"And here I was, thinking I was the one who got hit on the head," grumped Sam.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean's 'field trip' turned out to be a detour north, to a wildlife reserve, approaching a lake from the west.

"The main entrance is on the other side of the lake," Sam pointed out, studying the map.

"We don't want to main entrance," Dean told him, pulling the car off the road, and scrabbling for his binoculars.

"What exactly are we doing here, Dean?" sighed Sam, as Dean scanned the ground on the other side of the lake.

"Watching the wildlife, of course!" Dean grinned hugely. "Aaaaaaaaand... bingo. There. At eleven o'clock."

With a long-suffering sigh, Sam lifted his own binoculars, and looked for what had caught Dean's attention.

Andrew and Ronnie sat on the hood of his truck, holding beers, while Joni sniffed eagerly backwards and forwards across the ground. He let out a huff of disbelief.

"Do you mean to tell me, you brought us out here to... spy on Andrew and Ronnie?" he asked incredulously.

"Absolutely!" confirmed Dean, refocussing. "It wasn't that hard to work out. He had a sticker for this place on his truck. They're two people who like wide open spaces. He has honourable intentions, she's a bit scared, they need to talk. They're made for each other. This was the logical place to start looking." He grinned. "This looks good," he added, "Look how close they're sitting together... oh, yeah, look, she's giving him that smile..."

"I don't believe this," Sam dropped his head into his hands, "I don't believe this, couldn't you just wait until we get to Bobby's and watch porn or something?"

"I knew this would happen, when she came after him," Dean beamed, "Come on, Sam, you saw the way they were looking at each other, she wanted to kill Croydon on the spot for trying to skin Andrew..."

"Well, werewolves do pair-bond for life," Sam mused, smiling a little, "And if anyone deserves it, Ronnie does. Andrew too. He's a decent guy."

"He's a slowpoke, is what he is," humphed Dean, "Come on, you're going to have to take the lead here, pal, go alpha male on her ass..."

"Dean!" Sam slapped his brother upside the head. "That's enough!"

Dean shrugged him off. "Not now, Sam, this is better than a National Geographic documentary," he insisted.

"Oh, God, this is so wrong," moaned Sam.

"Wait, wait, wait, okay, there's the arm around her shoulders," relayed Dean, "She's doing the smile again, they're laughing about something, that's good, making the chick laugh is always good..."

"Dean, please stop," begged Sam.

"Hang on, hang on, we have a poignant expression here, Sammy..." Dean was clearly enthralled, "Go on, go on, go on go on go on just do it, big guy... YES! We have smooch-off!"

"Not actually needing to know this, Dean," Sam told him.

"It's okay Sam, it was just a little peck – why aren't you watching this? You might actually learn something," Dean was oblivious to his brother's discomfort. "Looks like he's attempting re-entry..."

"Kill me now," squeaked Sam.

"Aaaaaaand that is First Base right there, fans!" Dean sounded more enthusiastic that the most eager baseball commentator. "Oh, yeah, she's a quick learner. There's the smile again... as the arm goes over his shoulder... his arm goes around her waist... and, it's batter up!"

"Dean, start the car, and let's go," growled Sam with a double-strength shot of Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep).

"Are you kidding? This is just getting interesting!" beamed Dean. "We're staying right here to see if he steals Second..."

"In _public_?" yelped Sam. "He wouldn't! They wouldn't!"

Dean shrugged. "This is a woman who walks into drug dens and biker clubhouses stark naked, Sam. Who knows what she'd be prepared to do? It looks like she's enjoying this. Oh," he sounded disappointed, "She's breaking off... ah, more beer is needed. She's going to fetch the beer, Sammy, she really does like this guy!"

Sam made a wordless noise of distress, then grabbed for his phone when it chirped. He read the message, smiled and passed it to Dean. "It's for you," he announced.

Dean read it.

_**Sam tell Dean I said: Winchester fuck off you perv**_

He dropped the phone, and picked up the binoculars again. They were back on the hood, staring straight at him. Andrew gave him a sunny smile, and a thumbs up. Ronnie scowled, and also extended a single digit, but it wasn't her thumb.

"Rumbled, bro," grinned Sam, "Can we go now?"

"Spoilsport," grumbled Dean, starting the car, "It was just getting interesting."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

They arrived back at Singer Salvage a couple of days later, where Bobby duly upbraided them for getting mixed up with scum like Alex Croydon, offered to put out feelers to see if his network of contacts could help locate Burke, smiled hugely when they told him about Ronnie and Andrew, then slapped Dean upside the head for his field trip. Sam and Dean kept an ear to the ground when looking for cases, hoping to locate Croydon, but, like Burke, over the following months he appeared to drop off the radar. It wasn't entirely expected; the guy might be a Hunter, but he was a werewolf who knew what he was. If he used his knowledge to make himself disappear, he would be very difficult to track down.

Possibly not so difficult for a werewolf in a similar position, who had gone through the same thing and had an insight into how he would be thinking.

Ronnie did stay with Andrew. She found local work as a welder. She helped him make sure he stayed contained during the full moons that followed, and tried to help him get control of the shapeshift. But she didn't give up Hunting entirely – sometimes, she'd disappear for a few days, and come back, possibly carrying injuries. Andrew patched her up, and didn't ask questions until she was ready to talk. Mostly, she told him about her Hunts.

But not the one that took her to Kansas during the full moon five months later.

She left him with a kiss, an instruction to keep practising, and a predatory expression of anticipation that he hoped he'd never see aimed at him.

She was back a week later, exhausted, driving a brand new top-of-the-line pickup, and carrying a satchel that looked to contain an extraordinary amount of cash. He pushed her in the direction of the shower, then cleaned and re-dressed her wounds; they were visibly from the claws and teeth of another werewolf. Casual questions didn't get him a straight answer about where her sudden windfall had come from. It was just business, she told him – an opportunity to make some money from a Hunt had arisen, and that was just good business. He had his suspicions, but kept them to himself.

Bobby had his suspicions too, when a full set of werewolf teeth, apparently from an adult male, arrived for him by courier from Montana. Sam was equally suspicion-riddled about the satchel stuffed with bills that arrived with it, addressed to the Winchesters, with a single small note reading 'Spotter's Fee'.

Dean didn't waste any angst on the source of the money – he fixed the radio and the air conditioning in his Baby, and fitted a brand new windscreen and tyres while he was at it. Sam eventually argued him into the idea of keeping the majority of it as an emergency fund, largely by suggesting that if anything ever happened to the car it would be best to have a stash of cash to use to fix it, but Dean insisted that they stay somewhere nicer than usual when they went on their next job. After all, you couldn't take it with you.

It took them six days to track down the witch they were after; Dean ate the chocolate on Sam's pillow every single night.

**_THE EN_** - what? Oh, hang on, there's one last little bunny, insisting it has something to contribute.

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><p>I have never myself been puked on by Dave Mustaine, although I have been splattered with beer sprayed everywhere by James Hetfield - ah, the happy memories of my undergrad years, well, the ones I have, I was in fact pretty shit-faced myself that night - and only last year I was hit right in the nose by a guitar pick thrown by that careless Hammett boy. After I was boinked in the back of the head by a giant black beach ball. You go to a Metallica gig at your own risk, people.<p>

Reviews are the Chocoate-Coated Winchesters on the Pillows Of Life!


	21. Epilogue

The plot bunny made me do it. I guess I'm some sort of crack addict.

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><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

It was several months after The Croydon Incident before the Winchesters had cause to go to Montana again. Dean insisted that they go and visit Andrew, to see how he was managing the werewolf thing. Sam accused him of prurient interest in other people's private lives, but acquiesced. In fact, he privately considered his suspicions about the 'Spotter's Fee' confirmed when he saw the new pickup in Andrew's drive.

Dean's smile became even larger when they knocked on the door, and Joni ran straight through it to greet them, and wrestle with Jimi, before the dogs ran back inside through the door, barking happy greetings. When the door opened, Ronnie stood there.

"Gday fellas," she greeted them, ushering them inside, "What brings you to Montana?"

"Here on business, thought we'd get in a visit while we're in the area," Sam told her.

"So, you're still here, then?" leered Dean.

"Yep, still here," she agreed.

"Where's Andrew?" asked Sam.

Ronnie seemed to consider the question for a moment, then finally decided on her answer: "Stuck."

Both Winchesters blinked. "Stuck?" they chorused.

"Stuck," she confirmed.

"Um. Where is he, er, stuck, exactly?" asked Sam, not sure if he wanted an answer.

"In the living room," she replied nonchalantly, sticking her head out into the hallway. "An-DREW!" she bellowed. "The Winchesters are here!"

Sam and Dean exchanged a bemused look. "Er, if he's... stuck, does he need some help?" prompted Sam. "Is there something we can, um, do?"

"He needs to learn to do what he's told," she replied brusquely. "Not during the new moon, I said, but would he listen to me, noooooo, Mr Know-It-All knows it all. Go on through. You want beer?"

"Er, yeah," answered Dean, thoroughly mystified.

They headed for the living room. The sound of a football game on the TV drifted to them.

"Hey, Andrew," Dean began, "Ronnie said you might have a bit of a... oh."

"Um, I don't think we can help, here, Dean," suggested Sam.

Joni and Jimi sat on the sofa. Between them sat a seven-foot, 300-plus pound male werewolf, slouched in a picture of utter defeat, with the most despairing expression either of them had ever seen on a canine face.

They sat on the other sofa.

"So," started Sam, "Ronnie says you're, er, stuck."

The werewolf humphed sadly. Jimi sat up and licked consolingly at his ears.

"Okaaaaay," said Dean, "But, um, apart from, well," he waved a hand generally in Andrew's direction, "How's it going? You know, with Ronnie, and... everything."

A small doggy grin crossed the monster's face, and he let out a short whuff. The clawed gesture was clearly a thumbs up.

"Here you go," Ronnie said, coming into the room with beers, "One for you, Sam, one for you, Dean, one for me, and one for you Andrew. Oh, what's that? You can't manage a can, because you got yourself stuck? Surely not, after I warned you not to try? What's that? You decided to try anyway, because you thought you knew better? Silly me. I've only been doing it for more than twenty years, what would I know?" She smiled, and patted Andrew on the head.

They'd never seen a werewolf roll its eyes before, but there's a first time for everything.

"So, er, how long will you, er..." Dean gestured at Andrew, who held his beer carefully in one huge clawed hand.

"Oh, he'll snap back spontaneously, eventually, in his sleep, probably," Ronnie answered dismissively. "If you're going to watch this, I'm doing something else. Two different teams on the one side. I'll never understand it. Your football is ridiculous!" she snapped, stalking out, as if they had personally invented the game themselves for the express purpose of confusing her.

"You, er, need some help with that?" Sam asked.

Andrew regarded his beer thoughtfully, then popped the end of a claw through one end, bit into it, and shotgunned it.

"I guess not, then," Sam grinned.

"She's still cranky, then," observed Dean. The werewolf shrugged.

"For what it's worth, I think she's only cranky when she's happy," decided Sam.

"You must make her really happy, then, Andrew," grinned Dean.

They ended up spending the evening there, watching football and eating pizza. Sam took a picture of Dean and Andrew playing cards later to send to Bobby, who sent back a message consisting of a single word:_** idjits**_

Dean submitted the picture to an online special effects contest some time later, but was disappointed when he was told that his werewolf looked totally unrealistic: too big, too heavily muscled, and the trucker's cap on its head looked ridiculous. Sam put it down to what he called The Twilight Effect. Bobby said it was probably not such a bad thing if the general population had no idea what an Old North wolf actually looked like. Dean was disappointed, but not that surprised. Like he always said, demons he could understand, but people, they were just plain crazy.

_**REALLY THE END**_

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><p>It's finished! It's finished! *pulls jumper over head and runs around in circles* It's finished!Sneaking in just under 60,000 words. Holy crap! It's Frankenstory! Don't forget to blame Leahelisabeth, it's largely her fault for sooling the plot bunny onto me. And the various Denizens who insist on encouraging me. Well, that one was a marathon effort. If you're still reading after this long, award yourself some chocolate-covered internets. I'm sure we're all sad to see the back of DDD&amp;SSS, but I'm hoping the bunnies will give me a rest (there's still the ones from Paralesky and Bartlebead, amongst others, lurking, but I think I'm safe for now). It's that pesky Real Life, it does get in the way... Anyway, I'll be back next time the bunnies bite and the Winchesters need laundering, tata for now.<p>

Reviews make the plot bunnies have secks and produce more bunnies. It's true. Ask a biology teacher.


	22. Coda: The Problem

Good grief, the Denizens can be as prurient as Dean Winchester...

All right. All right. This is a sop to those individuals (you know who you are) who, like Dean, wanted to know how Ronnie and Andrew went from being a pair-bonded pair to being a mated pair. Or more specifically, a mat**ing** pair. Honestly, I give you the Winchesters in the custard tub, and what do you want? More details! I really don't think I'm up to writing That Sort Of Thing. All I will say is that it took time and patience on Andrew's part; just getting Ronnie as far as sharing a bed was enormous progress. Of course, that had its difficulties, too, as I shall now relate, in a short fic, a coda to 'Wolf In Wolf's Clothing', if you will, entitled:

**THE PROBLEM**

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><p>The first step in solving a problem, decided Andrew, was to admit that there was a problem. So, yeah, he had a problem.<p>

Admittedly, not exactly an earth-shattering, world-ending, apocalyptically-disastrous problem; there was definitely a funny side. But he had to admit, funny or not, it was a problem.

He sighed very quietly, and looked down to where the source of the problem was lying snuggled into his shoulder.

Which wasn't fair at all, really, blaming The Problem (when exactly had it acquired capital letters? he wondered idly) on Ronnie. After she'd shown courage in the face of the terrifying unknown of 'romantic attachment' - he was pretty sure she hadn't really meant to make it sound like a disease – she'd taken a deep breath, taken a leap of faith, and faced the frightening idea of someone finding her loveable. He would never stop being grateful for that; it was bewildering, and wonderful.

What were the odds of two werewolves, scarce as they were, encountering each other, then discovering that the Other was The One? He looked fondly down at Ronnie, feeling a pang of the protectiveness/affection/attachment that kept sneaking up on him every time he thought he'd gotten used to the idea of being… a couple. Was it a werewolf thing, he wondered, or was it just a human thing and he'd never met the right woman before? He'd never felt so completely…pair-bonded. That was the term the esoteric book had used: werewolves pair-bonded for life. It sounded like a term straight out of a National Geographic documentary on wildlife. He smiled at that, imagining a naturalist crouching behind the curtains, offering a breathless narration to the audience. "And now, the female is finally comfortable enough with the presence of the male, she accepts his intimate companionship, and dens with him. The bonds of attachment are so strong, that they will mate for life…"

Except, they hadn't exactly. Mated. Andrew squirmed ever so slightly – the problem with The Problem was, the more he tried not to think about it, the more of a problem it was…

As if reacting to his churning thoughts, Ronnie stirred in her sleep, mumbling something interrogative. He smiled and shushed her, stroking her hair as he planted a kiss on her temple and whispered soothing nothing. On that first night, when he'd held her as she cried through her own fears and anxiety, he'd discovered firstly that he had a fascination for her hair – out of the severe plait she usually wore, it was long, and wavy, and just begged to be stroked - and secondly, what a calming effect that had on her. Not only had it proven to be a sure fire way to get her to sleep, she made the most adorable little noises.

It smelled good, too. It smelled like whetstone oil, and leather, and gasoline, and _her_. Again, he wasn't sure if it was a werewolf thing, and not just a human thing and he'd never noticed how damned good a woman could just smell. He smiled to himself again, as she settled back into sleep, with one of those almost-surprised inarticulate noises. Adorable. And, if he was honest, kind of a turn-on… And part of him couldn't help but think that he'd just love to try some other ways of getting her to make surprised, inarticulate noises…

He checked himself mentally. That was the problem with The Problem. Whenever he thought about it, it got worse. And at night, with her right there, it was particularly difficult to deal with…

Mentally he chastised himself, stroking Ronnie's hair again. She'd come to accept physical contact – intimate physical contact – and that was enormous progress in a very short time. He felt the surge of protectiveness/attachment again, and let his fingers trail down the scar on her cheek. She turned her face towards the contact, mumbling in her sleep again. Yep, he could deal with it, he decided, he was not going to let The Problem be a problem…

Except, well, everything conspired against him. As his fingers traced her scar and her head turned, her bottom lip caught the end of his pinky, and for a moment her tongue darted to her lip, and made contact…

It was like a small jolt of electricity ran up his arm, and… elsewhere. _Damn it!_

Quietly, he sighed to himself. He had A Problem, and he had no idea how to go about dealing with it. Well, actually, he knew exactly how to deal with it, just not how he was going to go about dealing with dealing with it.

_Fuck_. Damn. Bad choice of word. This shit could do a guy's head in. He was about 30 years too old to be thinking like a hormone-crazed teenager.

It had begun during that first night when Ronnie had shyly and tensely slid into his bed. She had been so scared, and bewildered, and overwhelmed, all he'd wanted to do was hold her and make her feel safe and never see her upset again. And she'd let him; he'd discovered the hair-stroking thing (and the wonderful way she smelled), and she'd gone to sleep, snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. It had been a revelation, and he'd gone to sleep himself, knowing a contentment and a rightness he'd never experienced before…

Then he'd awoken a few hours later, acutely aware of The Problem.

He was sharing a bed with a woman he found gorgeous, and what red-blooded male wouldn't, er, respond to that? Maybe it was a werewolf thing, some pheromone crap that was specifically evolved to turn male werewolves into drooling idiots for the amusement of she-werewolves, but he suspected it could just as easily be a human thing.

Her presence, the sight of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, and those little noises – oh God, those little noises – added up to one big pile of turn-on. He knew she wasn't doing it on purpose – he suspected that she had no idea it was happening – but happening it was. Lying next to Ronnie was making him as horny as hell, and he was worried about how she would react when she found out.

He tried, he really did, he tried to ignore the thoughts and feelings and imaginings – oh yeah, some of_ those_ just made The Problem _a lot _worse – but it was becoming harder. Um, poor choice of words, it was already uncomfortably hard… oh no… STOP IT!

Flushing the plumbing in the shower before bed really wasn't helping, and at his age, he thought, he should probably be glad, if not outright _proud_, of that, but under the circumstances, it was no longer just a good way to segue into a good night's sleep. Getting a mental picture of Sally Jesse Raphael or Oprah Winfrey, in showgirl outfit, reciting the Gettysburg Address was a technique that had proven effective previously, but he was being sabotaged. Even as Ronnie went back to sleep, he could feel the warmth of her breath against his side through his t-shirt, and then there was…

Hell's bells, there it went again. She relaxed against his shoulder, and one arm snaked slowly across his chest. That first night, he'd found it adorably possessive – _mine_, her actions said, _I claim this one as_ _mine_ – but now it was just one more aggravation of The Problem. He held still, holding his breath, feeling her hand trail across him, praying for her to settle soon… one of her fingers brushed his nipple, and he let out a small squeak of squelched lust. Her hand reached his shoulder and she stilled. He let out the breath he'd been holding, and tried to relax, willing himself to go back to sleep.

Then the hand started to move, sliding slowly down his side, her arm trailing across his chest, then that was definitely belly, and coming to rest just above his hip… he winced, and grabbed her hand gently but firmly, returning it to his shoulder before it went too far south and scared the hell out of both of them…

He lay in the dark, the blood pounding in his head (and elsewhere), controlling his breathing, thinking of all the good reasons he had for being patient and not just jumping her _right now_, because he'd promised her he'd never hurt her, and he meant that, and it was going to have to wait until she was ready or he'd scare the hell out of her, and she was hesitant and still frightened of her own ignorance, which was not surprising, after all, in this day and age how many 40-year-old virgins were there roaming around, there was nothing for it, he'd have to wait for her to discover lust for herself, because if he pushed her it would ruin everything and he did not want to do that, so he'd wait, and give her time, and just try not to think about how much he wanted to make her dig her nails into his back and howl his name…

_Shit._ His heart was thumping, and he was having trouble controlling his breathing. Getting out of bed was probably the best option at this point, maybe taking a cold shower, or maybe just dumping the contents of the ice tray down his shorts…

"Andrew?" Ronnie asked quietly, sleepily, and he cursed himself roundly for not noticing that she was picking up on his, er, agitation. "You okay, mate?" she asked him, a frown deepening the crease between her eyebrows.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he replied, making himself smile and forcing his body – well most of it – to relax.

She eyed him dubiously, pulling her hand back from his shoulder. "Andrew, you're sweating," she accused, her voice more awake and becoming serious, "Are you feeling all right?"

_Well, apart from being so horny I think I might go crazy, __or just jump you right now, or explode, or all of the above, I'm just peachy_, he thought ruefully, saying more tactfully, "I was feeling a bit tired after work – I might have picked up some bug. Hopefully, it's just a 24-hour viral thing."

"That's no good," she announced, "You should probably have a sleep-in in the morning if you feel a bit off-colour, kick the damned thing properly. You feeling too hot, or too cold? Maybe I should get you a warm drink, that'll help you sleep…"

"No, really, I'm good," he began, but it was too late, she was out of bed, turning on the bedside light, and giving him a mock frown. "Sit! Stay! Good boy."

"Woof," he grumbled at her, before she flashed him a beatific smile and headed for the kitchen. He was horrified by the thought that sprang unbidden into his head as he had yet another argumentative discussion of The Problem with himself.

_Do you think there's time to, you know, take care of The Problem for the moment?_

_No! Dear God, what are you thinking?_

_I'm thinking I'm feeling as horny as a goat, and really I would like to get some sleep tonight._

_I can't believe I'm even considering this…_

…_and I don't want to poke Ronnie in the back if an opportunity for spooning arises…_

_Lalalalalalalalalalalalala I'm not listening I'm not listening…_

_Fine. YOU deal with it when she gets back here, and finds you with a raging hard-on, Achmed the Tent-maker._

With a small exasperated whimper, he gave in to The Fifteen Year Old Within, and headed for the bathroom.

As it turned out, yes, there was indeed time to deal with The Problem. For the moment.

"You're looking a bit flushed," she commented, sitting on the bed and handing him the mug of houndswort tea she'd brewed for him, and putting a hand on his forehead, "You sure you're not feeling warm?"

"Nah, this stuff will sort me out," he answered, sipping carefully at the hot drink, "It's great."

"I'm told that only werewolves like it," she said, "Apparently, to anyone else, it tastes absolutely disgusting."

They sat in companionable silence, lounged comfortably against the headboard, finishing their drinks.

"Maybe you should take it easy tomorrow. Or today," she amended, glancing at the clock, "Come on, back to bed, it's cold out here." She wiggled back under the covers, and he followed suit. "I don't want to end up having to look after a whining, sneezing, snot-gurgling troll with a case of man-flu."

"Okay, okay, no man-flu and no whining, I promise," he said in a conciliatory tone, "Although breakfast in bed might be nice."

"Hmmmm, you'd have to convince me you're really sick for that," she pulled a face at him. "Would sir care to fill in the breakfast order and leave in on the door? What would sir like brought to him in bed?"

"Oh, you'll do nicely," he said immediately – it slipped out before he had a chance to censor himself. Inside, a part of him curled up and screamed, pounding its head on the floor, shouting _Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!_ Ronnie froze, and turned to him, her expression unreadable. He smiled the desperately despairing smile of a doomed man at her, waiting for the fury, the flight, or the fist…

Her face became thoughtful, and then she slowly squirmed her way to him, lifted herself on one elbow, and kissed him. He was vaguely surprised, and a little taken aback – it was the first time she'd initiated a kiss, and it was turning into one hell of an effort…

When they finally drew apart a little, she smiled at his slightly shell-shocked face. "Careful what you wish for, big boy," she said archly, trailing a finger along his collar bone, "One day, you might get it." He just smiled back at her, and she humphed contentedly, snuggling into his shoulder again, inhaling deeply. "Hmmmm, did anybody ever tell you that you smell good, Pheromone Boy?"

"Would you expect a gentleman to answer that?" he replied primly, and she pulled a face at him, settling against him. "Now I'm feeling guilty for waking you up. Go back to sleep, Ronnie."

"Yeah, okay, you too, Sir Gentleman Pheromone Man-Flu Boy," she rumbled, closing her eyes as he stroked her hair again. It wasn't long before she was lulled back to sleep, and he was drowsing next to her, smiling to himself.

Okay, it was just a kiss, but… wow, what a kiss. It was more than a kiss – it was progress. It was hope. And surely a guy could hope? After all, they were pair-bonded, and if she could kiss like that, who knows what else she could do with her tongue…

_Oh no…_

With an inward groan of disbelief, Andrew realised that he still had A Problem.

It had to be a werewolf thing.

At least now, though, something was telling him that the solution to his problem was right there, curled into his shoulder. He planted another kiss on her forehead, and was rewarded with one of those little noises, then he lay back and thought of Oprah.

_Four score and seven years ago…_

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><p>The End. Srsly. Let it go. Keep your bunnies to yourselves. I beg you...<p> 


End file.
